I walked into Max’s kitchen and poured myself a cup then sauntered into the den to see if he was around. He was sitting in front of his computer composing an e-mail. I sat down and waited until he clicked on “send” and asked him if he had tried “porn” in his search engine lately.

“Why do you ask?” he said.

“You remember when we were shocked that we’d get 90 million hits on porn?”

“Yeah.”

“Try it now,” I urged him.

He turned around, hit a few keys, waited a moment and then said, “Holy cow!”

“What’s the total?” I asked.

“Two hundred eighty-eight million,” he said, swiveling his chair around.

“So the pornographers have prospered,” I chuckled, “and not a one of them identified by the triple X domain identifier.”

Max sighed. “Bushy-boy did a good job of killing that, didn’t he? Parents and libraries still have no easy way to block porn. The irony of it is that the porn merchants actually asked for it.”

“That’s a good argument for taking domain designation away from the United States , isn’t it?” I asked.

“Not among our federal authorities,” Max replied. “They just keep on pretending porn doesn’t exist. Mentioning it in an official document would be legitimizing it. But that isn’t the most astounding thing that’s going on. Did you know that Argentina legalized gay marriage last week?”

“No, I don’t think Fox News talks about stuff like that,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

“Well they did,” Max went on. “Now same sex couples can get married in Buenos Aires , Mexico City, Pretoria and Ames , Iowa . But guess where they can’t get married.”

“Where?”

“In San Francisco , the shining city on the gay hill.”

“Good grief!” I exclaimed. “You’re right. Californians voted the same sex marriage thing down. That is ironic.”

“I thought it was a pattern of illogic for the ages,” Max chuckled.

“By the way, what’s your take on gay marriage, Max?”

“I think you know where I stand. I think it’s up to the states to make their own laws. The feds have no Constitutional prerogative about marriage. Anyway, I think monogamy is less risky than promiscuousness.”

“Don’t do as I do, do as I say,” I scoffed. “Monogamy is less risky? Folks, this little homely brought to you by the raging roué of Bangkok ?”

“You know that I am not successful at marriage,” he grumbled. “At least, I’ve tried.”

“Things are changing too much, too fast, Max. I read where most young people think nothing about having babies out of wedlock,” I mused.

“I am aware of that too,” he replied. “They just keep cranking out those ‘love children’ willy-nilly. As long as they take responsibility for the little brats, I suppose it’s okay. But there’s too many that don’t.”

Speaking of that, “It was one of the most ironic things ever when they discovered the link between crime rate and Roe versus Wade,”

“You’re talking about the dramatic drop in national crime rates sixteen years later?”

“That’s what I thought of. That’s real irony for you,” I said. “Yet, logical.”

Max laughed ruefully. “Talk about ironic. I see Bristol and Levi are getting back together.”

“Yes, I understand it was even a surprise for mom.”

“After Levi shot off his mouth about dear old Mom in the public prints, he was probably afraid to talk to her,” Max said. “She’s usually heavily armed, you know.”

“Talk about the sword of Damocles,” I said. “Levi better be a good boy.”

“We’ve got elections coming up. We ain’t heard the last of it,” Max said with a deep sigh.

Max and I were sitting in his den watching a news report on BP’s successful effort to put a cap on their little runaway gusher and sipping a couple of dark beers. The commercial came on so Max turned to me and said, “It appears that the ghost of John Connally has been hard at work in Minnesota ?”

I looked at him a minute and decided my ears were playing tricks on me again. “ Whattaya talkin’ about?”

“You recall that the story that John Connally being the one that went to Duval County and talked those dead Chicanos into voting for Lyndon Johnson for the Senate, put him over the top?”

“I remember that was the rumor. I don’t think it was ever officially confirmed,” I said.

“You didn’t expect it to be did you?” Max laughed. “Any you must not have read about the large number of felons that illegally voted in the Minnesota senatorial election, huh?”

“Felons? What are you talking about?”

Max smiled. “It appears that there is a watchdog group called the Minnesota Majority that smelled a rat in that Minnesota recount that reversed the outcome of the senatorial election. This bunch has been combing through records comparing the lists of those who voted with criminal rap sheets. They found that at least 289 convicted felons voted in Hennepin County , the state’s largest county and another 52 voted illegally in Ramsey County where St. Paul is located. The head man, Dan McGrath, says that they counted only conclusive matches and that the number of felons voting in those two counties alone exceeds Franken’s victory margin”

“Good grief!” I exclaimed. “What a rat’s nest! What are they going to do about it?”

“They went to Hennepin County and told ‘em what they’d found and the officials there just stonewalled ‘em.”

“What a surprise,” I said sarcastically.

“But over in Ramsey County , the District Attorney, name of Phil Carruthers, took the whole thing very seriously and said the Minnesota Majority “had done a good job in their review.” He’s asked for 15 investigators to be hired to pursue the investigation. Carruthers said, “So far we have charged 28 people with felonies, have 17 more under review and have 182 cases still open.”

“You don’t think it’ll change anything do you?” I sneered.

“No, but it’s nice to know somebody cares about the integrity of the system,” Max replied.

“That’s a warm and fuzzy alright,” I said. “But it just proves, once again, you can’t beat the Democrats in a recount when they’ve got the state attorney general on their side.”

“I know,” he said, nodding. “They found out in Florida that if they didn’t have the Attorney General in their pocket, they weren’t going to win any recounts.”

“Taught ‘em to choose their battlegrounds more carefully, huh?” Max asked.

I just nodded and drank my beer.

Max was going to the gun store to get ammo for his Glock and I went along for the ride just to see what was the latest in the world of gunsmoke.

As we were cruising down I30, Max asked, “Did you see where Hugo Chavez has pulled another dirty trick on his people?”

“No,” I replied. “What did he do this time?”

“He moved the official U. S. dollar exchange rate from 2.15 bolivars to 4.3 bolivars. He effectively wiped out the savings and purchasing power of the people he brags about representing.”

“Good grief!” I exclaimed. “That had to hit hard. Venezuela imports damn near everything they use. That’s going to inflate prices like crazy.”

“Oh, no!” Max replied with a wry grin. “Chavez already thought of that. He promised to arrest any merchant adjusting prices.”

“How logical that guy is!” I observed. “With a grasp of economic theory like that, he’s a veritable Latin Milton Friedman, isn’t he?”

Grinning, Max replied, “So, the long-suffering Venezuelan people are faced with a Hobson’s choice. They can have even more shortages than they already have or they buy on the sly at inflated prices. The irony of it is that most of them were already on the edge, just barely getting by.”

“That ain’t all,” Max went on, sighing. “The government instituted rolling blackouts across the country because their generating power is going to hell in a basket.”

“Oh, no! What happened?”

The official position of the government is that they have had a long drought that’s left the water levels at the Guri Dam at critically low levels. And the country gets 70% of its power from that dam.”

“You mean to tell me a country swimming in oil hasn’t constructed a bunch of back-up generating capacity?”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Max said, shaking his head. “They’ve had chaos. In Caracas , people were stuck in elevators and the predators had a field day in the dark streets. The per capita murder rate in Caracas was already one of the highest in the world and it got worse. He stopped the blackouts in Caracas , but they are still going in the rest of the country.”

“Next, they’ll be running out of oil,” I said, jokingly.

“Funny you should say that,” Max snorted. “They still have plenty of oil, in the ground anyway. The problem is that Chavez has expelled or seized the assets of foreign oil companies like ExxonMobile and Conoco-Philips. There’s no one left to properly maintain the oil fields. On top of that, he fired the skilled employees of the state oil company because he didn’t like their politics and put his political cronies in charge. In 1998, Venezuela was producing 3.3 million barrels of crude a day. In January, it was down to 2.4 million and heading south.”

Shaking my head, I said, “I wonder if those economics professors in those big Ivy League schools brag about Venezuela ’s successes in their experiment with socialism”

“You kidding?” Max chuckled. “When the country finally collapses, they’ll just say what they always say, “The right people weren’t in charge.”

“Gosh, where have I heard that before?” I wondered aloud.

I was rather excited and anxious to tell my friend Max about my discovery. I was just back from a few days in Las Vegas during which I ran across the notorious fugitive, Ilsa of the SS.

Max sneered at me, dubiousness oozing from every pore , and growled, “Ilsa of the SS was the invention of a softcore porno movie maker. You couldn’t have run across her.”

“Oh yes,” I insisted. “The years had not been kind to her, but it was her. She was six feet tall, a build reminiscent of the late Bronco Nagurski, with generous breasts added of course, a haughty sneer, the attitude of merciless command, ice-blue eyes devoid of humanity and a predilection toward clicking her heels in the presence of a superior.”

“What was this refugee from justice doing when you discovered her?” Max asked, somewhat curious.

I answered, “She was dealing blackjack at the Mirage Casino.”

“Oh for crying out loud!” Max muttered.

“No, really,” I said. “I sat at that table for half an hour and she never uttered a word, never smiled nor displayed an iota of human emotion. I started calling her ‘Chuckles’ but even then, she wouldn’t react. Finally a lady came up to the table and started chewing on the poor clown on my left, wanting to know where he’d been and what in hell he’d been up to. Boy! Was she ticked. She called him everything but a Sunday school teacher. That was when Ilsa smiled for the first time.”

“I think you dreamed that, or you were bombed out of your gourd,” Max said.

“You don’t believe that could happen at a blackjack table?”

Max’s eyes narrowed as he thought a moment. “Well, I
suppose stranger things have happened. I ran into a strange thing at a blackjack table in Lovelock, Nevada one time.”

“Lovelock?” I asked. “Is there such a place?”

Max just gave me that strained tolerance look of his and told me this story:

“I was sitting in a rundown little wannabe casino just off US 80 at the edge of Lovelock, Nevada, a wide place between the Trinity and West Humboldt mountains. Don’t ask me what I was doing there; it doesn’t matter to the story anyway. I had to kill some time before a meeting so I was playing a few hands of single deck blackjack, minimum bet two dollars. A pleasingly plump young lady who looked as if she might be of Zuni extraction was the combination cocktail waitress and bouncer. She brought me a bottle of the local beer, which tasted as if it had just been voided by a puma, and I had played a few hands when this strange little fellow walks in. He was about twenty-two or three, five nine, kind of innocent looking, blond, dressed in jeans and a red flannel shirt. He hesitated at the door for a moment then headed in the direction of my table. When he walked up I saw he was carrying a fancy brass urn that looked an awful lot like a container for cremated remains. He put the urn in the seat next to me, took the seat on the other side, and pulled out some money to exchange for chips.

“He looked at me with innocent blue eyes, smiled real big and stuck out his hand. ‘Boyd Singleberry,’ he said.

“I told him my name and he turned to the dealer, who is the only other person at the table, introduced himself then said, ‘Beautiful day, ain’t it?’

“The dealer looked at him, raises one eyebrow, nodded at the urn and asked, ‘Who’s your friend?’

"Boyd Singleberry smiled like he’s about to bust. ‘That’s my mom. I’m taking her on a little pleasure trip.’

“The dealer didn’t even change expression. He states, ‘If she’s going to sit there, she’s got to play a hand.'"

“’Oh, why sure!’ Boyd said and placed a two-dollar bet on the space in front of his mom, er, the urn.
“The dealer was about to deal but the stops and says, ‘One more house rule. If we get crowded and someone wants that seat, your mom will have to give it up.’
“’Oh?’ Boyd said with a frown.

“’Yeah,’ the dealer answered in a monotone without so much as a changed expression. ‘House rules, live people take precedence over dead people at an open table.’

“’Oh, I get you,’ Boyd said, smiling real big. He looks around the room and seeing no one but the cocktail waitress, grinned again and said, ‘Fair enough.’

“The Zuni girl came over and asked Boyd what he’ll have. Boyd told her his name and asked for a beer. He pointed at the urn and says, ‘This is Momma, she don’t drink.’

“The cocktail waitress looked at the urn then back at Boyd who was grinning. She looked back at the urn, shrugged and said, ‘Hi Boyd’s momma.’ Then she left to get the beer.

“The dealer dealt the cards and we played a few hands. Boyd sipped his beer and began to play his cards like a wild man. He was totally unconventional. He’s playing two hands, his own and his mom’s. He hits a sixteen when the dealer has a three showing and draws a five. He has two face cards for twenty, splits ‘em and makes twenty-one on both. His mom blackjacks on the third hand and he turns to the urn and says, ‘Now see there, Momma. You’re gambling and winning and it didn’t hurt a bit did it?’

“’I must have looked a little funny because he leaned over and explained, ‘My mom always hated gambling. Said it was the devil’s game. She hated drinking liquor too, said it was the devil’s brew. So I’m taking her out drinking and gambling.’"

“The dealer just raises that eyebrow of his and shuffles the cards.

“‘Showing your mom what she missed?’ I asked.

“’Damn tootin,’ Boyd replied. ‘She never would let me do jack. Hell, she even bitched about the girls I tried to date. If I got to likin’ one, she’d call her up on the phone and scare her off, tell her I was born with a tic that made me twitch and foam at the mouth when I got excited, stuff like that. She wanted me to date them flat-chested gals down at the church that wore glasses and needed to have their adenoids out. Well sir, I fixed her.’

“The dealer stopped shuffling and listened to Boyd.

“My curiosity piqued, I asked, ‘How did you fix her?’

“’I got me a hundred-dollar whore down at Tonopah last night, paid her an extra fifty to give me an around-the-world. When she made it around the world and got down to the grand climax of the tour, I yelled, ‘Momma, look what this bad gal is doing to me now. Wahoo!’ That whore raised up and said, ‘Who the hell are you talkin’ to?’ I pointed at the urn up on top of the TV and said, 'I’se talkin’ to Momma.'

“’That whore says, 'You are one strange son-of-a-bitch!'

“I said, 'I ain’t paying you to talk dirty, girl! Now get back to work, girl. Earn that extra fifty! Well, she did and I whooped and hollered till the motel manager came down and rapped on the door and told me to shut the hell up ‘cause I was scaring the rest of his customers. I did cause I’se about wore out anyway."

“The dealer shook his head and said, ‘Hell’s kitchen, fellow. I can sure understand why you’d scare people.’”

“’When did your momma die?’ I asked.
“’Week before last,’ Boyd answered, grinning again. ‘I got all the business took care of, got Momma put in that urn and we hit the road. I’m doing all the things she used to bitch about.’

“I started to get the drift. ‘Where’s your Pa?’

‘Oh hell, he’s been dead a long time,’ Boyd replied. He looked serious for a moment then said, ‘Got hisself shot in a poker game when I was a little tad. He’s buried up to Tuscarota. That’s where I’m taking Momma.’

“’You’re going to put her ashes over his grave, huh? That’s a nice gesture,’

“‘A nice gesture?’ Boyd cackled. ‘It sure is. Momma hated my Pa somethin’ terrible. Said he warn’t worth a dog turd on his best day. She cussed his memory every day of her life right up until the time she gurgled a couple times and died.’

“’Why are you taking her up to Tuscarota, then,’ I asked, a little nonplussed.

“‘Why I’se goin’ to dig a hole in the top of Pa’s grave and pour Momma’s ashes into it. Because it’s so dry up there, I figure she’ll seep down real slow all around Pa’s corpse, bitchin’ every inch of the way. I’ll have both of ‘em right there in Tuscarota then I’ll head for Las Vegas and get me a job and I won’t be able to hear that bitchin’ and moaning ever again. But my old man, who never did shit for me, will have to listen to it till God hisself gets tired of it and blows this planet all to hell.’

“Glancing at my watch, I told the dealer to cash me out. To Boyd, I said, ‘Enjoyed meeting you, son. Hell of a story!’

“Boyd cashed out as well, picked up his momma and said he'd walk out with me. As it happened he was parked next to me.

“I said, ‘Good luck to you, Boyd. I hope you get all your ghosts exorcised.’

“Does exorcised mean thrown out?” he asked.

“It does; exactly that,” I answered.

“The boy looked at me kind of funny for a moment without replying. To my surprise, tears welled up in his eyes and he said, ‘I hadn’t thought about it, but I reckon that’s what I’m doin,’ ain’t it?’ He wiped at his eyes with his cuff, smiled real big again and said, ‘I just didn’t know what to call it.’

“I said, ‘Good luck in Vegas, Boyd. And good luck with the rest of your life.’

“‘Thanks, mister,’ he answered. Then, with a dreamy edge to his voice, he said to no one in particular, ‘Gosh, the rest of my life!’

“He climbed into his old faded red pickup, belted his mom into the passenger seat, cranked the engine, waived and headed northeast.”
Max poured himself another cup of coffee and said, “That’s the end of that story.”

Max stopped talking and sipped his beer. Neither of us spoke for a while. Finally I said, “Your story was better’n mine, Max.”

He just nodded.

In 1993, the supreme religious authority of Saudi Arabia , Sheik Abdel-Aziz Ibn Baaz, issued a fatwah declaring the Earth is flat. The fatwah declared anyone who believes that the Earth is round does not believe in God and should be punished.

Carl Sagan
The Demon-Haunted World
1996

Max came in the back door, grabbed a Shiner Bock out of my fridge and plopped down on my sofa. Taking a big swig, he asked, “D’ja hear about Obama wanting NASA to do some good will spreading for him.”

I hit “save” and turned around. “Wanted NASA to do something for him after he trashed their budget? What’s the punch line?”

“No punch line,” Max said, smiling. “I’m serious as ebola, man. He wants the head of NASA to make nice-nice with the Muslim world and encourage them in their technical achievements.”

I wasn’t sure of what I’d just heard and it must have shown on my face. Max chuckled and said, “You heard me, he wants NASA to help the Muslims develop modern technology.”

“The last time the Muslims made a technical advance,” I said, “they started using AK-47s to slaughter the infidel instead of scimitars. What in hell does he mean, their technology? They don’t have any technology! The Saudis have to bring in Asians, Americans and Brits to do their technology. They can’t even keep the lights on without outside help. Is this a colossal joke?”

“It may be a joke on the NASA people who are losing their jobs, to provide a chuckle to cheer them up, perhaps,” Max said sarcastically. “After all, they wo't be doing anything else so the ones that are left will have time on their hands.”

“What a colossal insult to our space people!” I muttered. “I wonder if this speech made something run down Chris Matthews’ leg.”

“I think that was a thrill running up his leg,” Max said.

“Oh. Well, in any case, that’s easier to clean up,” I observed.