Simultaneous Catastrophes — Update

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,

The Name Thing

This one had me howling, in Comments:

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.

Policy Change

As all Readers know, I prefer that comments be more or less attached to the post topic, because otherwise things can get out of control, and I lack the patience and good humor to keep going back to the thing to fix it up.

But I suspect that a lot of you would like to get things off your collective chest, and sound off about something that has irritated / angered / pleased / aroused you, whatever.

This has become evident in the popularity of “Open Post” features (Insty can get thousands of comments in his free-for-all posts, for example).

So from now on, I am declaring my News Roundup posts to be open for all or any comments, regardless of topic.  As you know, they appear every Tuesday and Friday, so each week you get two whacks of the axe, so to speak.  (If you have trouble logging in to comment, let me know by email;  I’ll pass it on to TSII, and he will get to it as time permits.)

Enjoy — I’m not going to censor or delete anything, unless it’s completely horrible or egregious ad hominem  attacks on other Readers (my back porch, my judgment, no appeal).  I think you all know my limits by now, so it should be easy.

And FFS, please don’t use this freedom to try to fuck me over, because that will not end well (for you).

A Day In My Life

Indulge me please, O Gentle Readers, while I recount my activities last Friday.  They were nothing special, but there were a couple of highlights.

Woke up a little late after a night which featured “episodic sleep” — other Olde Pharttes will know whereof I speak — and finally fell into some proper sleep at about 5am.

Got up, did the usual Morning Stuff (Rx, urination etc.) and staggered out of the bedroom to make the morning coffee.  Debated about the gin, decided against it as I’d taken New Wife out for a Birthday Dinner the night before, and drunk perhaps a leetle too much sangria.  (Everything in moderation, that’s me.)

Coffee in hand, I discovered lying on my keyboard an empty bottle of some female facial cleansing lotion, and a plaintive note asking me to get her a fresh bottle.

Excellent:  a reason to get out of the house and do some husbandly / housekeeping duties — some groceries, fill the car, nothing special.

On the way out of the apartment complex parking lot, I saw something unusual:  a decently-styled American car:  I think it was a Buick, but as far as I’m aware they (like Lincoln) don’t make passenger sedans anymore, and the badge was too small for me to make the model out, whatever it was, but then again I’m not in the market for anything like that so I pootled out over the irritating speed bumps [1,000-word angry rant omitted].

Decided on Wal-Mart, simply because they’re just up the road and as I said, I needed to refill the Tiguan and their gas is reasonably priced.

I turned left across the traffic, and noted that there was an oncoming car just down the road, but the speed limit is 35mph, so plenty of room.  Except that he wasn’t doing 35 or anything close to it, so he swerved out of my lane and rocketed past me, shaking his fist (!) as he went by.

I had one of my quiet conversations at that point:  “I’m sorry;  did I make you late for your appointment at the next traffic light?”

As it happened, I didn’t;  but he was right on time for the cop doing the speed trap a block or so away.  So that ended well.

Went into Wal-Mart and got all the necessary things on the list — but before checking out, I stopped by the self-service lottery machine to make my weekly pension contribution.  As any fule kno, these contraptions do not give change, and all I had was a $20.

So I went over to the little in-house bank to get some change, only to be told that they don’t do that kind of thing unless the supplicant has an account with them.  “Well, I don’t have an account with you, and probably won’t ever in the future,” I replied, and went over to the Customer Service Desk.

Only to be told that they cannot open the register drawer unless “there’s a cash transaction”.

Another man may have exploded with rage at this point, but I decided to be a better man than that.  So I went back into the store itself and left my shopping cart in the clothing section, where it wouldn’t be spotted immediately — said shopping cart containing two cartons of expensive ice cream, a quart of yogurt, a frozen pizza and some fresh fruit.

Got into the car and decided to go to my old neighborhood Kroger instead, where everybody knows my name (I’ve been shopping there for well over twenty years, and the only reason I hadn’t gone there in the first place was because it’s about three miles away from the apartment AND it lies on the other side of some serious road repair works).

So I went where everybody knows my name — and where quite a few people know everybody else’s name, to judge from the odd person chatting to another in the parking lot.  Took an old lady’s cart from her just as she’d finished unloading it, getting a grateful “You’re my hero!  Thank you!” which made me feel quite better about my world.

Went into Kroger, got all the stuff I’d left in the cart at Wal-Mart plus a few other impulse items, and went over to the Customer Service Desk’s Jeanelle, who not only gave me change upon request, but got me my lottery tickets from their machine.  (She has a lovely singing voice, by the way:  one of those deep, rich gospel/soul ones, which I’d heard on a previous trip.  She is also one of the few people who has ever tripped me up on musical trivia, in that she knew the correct release date of Stevie Wonder’s album Songs In The Key Of Life.)

Checked out using the self-service aisle (I only go full service if I’ve got a large full cart, and that in the interests of speed), waved good-bye to Angela the supervisor, waved to Debbie the front-end manager on my way out, and after loading up the Tiguan, filled up at the pump using my Kroger Fuel Points (11c off per gallon when buying more than 8 gallons).

Got back home — the ?Buick? was no longer there for me to see what it actually was, so I filed that under “Unimportant Shit” and forgot about it.

Net result of the day:  considerable personal satisfaction (mission accomplished, grocerywise;  watched an asshole get a speeding ticket;  denied Wal-Mart some profit both from an unrealized transaction plus — I hope — some spoiled unsellable foods, as well as having my gas money go to their competitor).

And I got to interact with people that I don’t really know, but had only pleasant experiences with.  On a warm autumn day (no a/c needed in the car) in north Texas.

Not too bad, all things considered.

Gentle Reminder

In case anyone here has been asleep for the past couple of decades, and just in case I haven’t been clear enough in the past (pictures say it best): 

Any questions?


Oh, and by the way:  for the past week, I’ve been wearing a kippah every time I leave the house.  Pity the fool.