Due to credible threats from everybody from under-aged and over-zealous readers, radical Islamic militants, and outbreaks of Ebola and Dengue fevers, as well as World War III, I have been forced to retain professional personal security services.

Behold!

This is Biscuit. Or, as he says when he calls me in an emergency “This Bicuit!” Or, if there’s an emergency and he’s already been hitting his afternoon Benzedrine and grappa, “Thiscuit!”

Biscuit is my new bodyguard, head of security, road manager, hype man, and fixer. I have never seen him without sunglasses on. He is not allowed to carry firearms as a condition of his probation, but he is an absolute menace with his BB gun rifle. I have yet to see him shoot, but he keeps bludgeoning the hell out of people with the butt of the thing, so much so that part of his nightly routine is to repair the the gun with duct or masking tape.

His resume, such that it was, was handwritten on a cocktail napkin from The Hideaway Lounge. It said BISCUIT in huge letters at the top, and then had bulleted qualifications, of which one was “former seal.” Of course, I thought he was indicating former membership in one of the Navy’s elite SEAL teams, but such was not the case. Biscuit very much believes that he was a seal, you know…water mammal, black eyes, flippers, aggressively cute…in a past life and had a particular fondness for mackerel.

Biscuit Trivia: Not only is Biscuit his given name, but he has two older twin brothers, both of whom are named Balloon.

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I don’t necessarily actively watch much TV, but the TV always seems to be on, usually with the volume loud enough to be heard in other rooms, which is where I usually am. Normally the noise is effortlessly tuned out, but whenever something “relevant” comes on, I hear it. And so it was the other night when what with my wondering ears did I hear but the sweet, sweet sound of Sid Vicious singing “My Way.” I sprang to my feet to find out what the hell was going on. What could it mean? My mind raced through various possibilities as I ran into the room whence the sound came. Had Sidney Vish been frozen along with Bruce Lee and Elvis in the late ’70s to be revived once the economy had improved? Had the determination been made that the economy is clearly never going to get better and we may as well just bring back the boys to kick a little ass and have a bit of fun? There were oh so many wonderful scenarios passing through my transom when I sock-skidded around the corner and saw the TV. A car commercial. For Acura. No Sid. No Nancy. Acura.

I believe what I now experience each time that commercial comes on is what David Wallace called The Howling Fantods, what HST called The Fear, and what modern psychology calls Cognitive Dissonance. Call it what you will, now instead of sudden elation and the urge to overthrow monarchies, I just have a weird goddamn fit and end up cussing at everything in a Tourettish display of contempt.

I think I’m getting an ulcer. Surrender is imminent. Send whiskey.

When the history of World War III is written, the pusillanimous failure of the United States to act throughout 2013 and 2014 will be blamed directly for the length and ferocity of the war.

What happened to “Several calls to his office went unanswered,” or “We attempted to contact her but were unable to do so,” or “I sent him 17 texts”? When did all these things – or just any attempt to contact anyone – become “reaching out” to them. Christ on a bike. That’s just disgusting. Whomever came up with “we reached out to them,” is surely someone who dotted every “i” in high school with an insipid pink heart and probably even tried that shit in college until some adjunct professor berated her publically before the end of the first week of class, but she still does it when she gets drunk on pinot and writes her boyfriend’s name over and over and wonders why he hasn’t called in so long.

You reached out to me? No, you didn’t. You left me a voice mail and a text both telling me to check my email. There was no reaching out. You’re not goddamn Mother Teresa visiting the leporotic. The only people who reach out are those who are about to drown and pissed off infants who just woke up from their nap and want the fuck out of this pissy crib. Otherwise you simply called. You texted. You tweeted. You twatted. You hollahed. You gave me a shout out. You put me on blast. You asked me for on-camera comment. You straight harrassed my ass. But whatever you did, it was not reaching out.

Good day.

After two weeks of scoring standardized tests, I can state with certainty that they are not teaching English in the public high schools of Pocatello, Idaho.

After one week of scoring standardized tests, I can state with certainty that they are not teaching classical Latin in the public high schools of Pocatello, Idaho.

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain — and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

~ Robert Frost

I love our national anthem. I used to think that “America the Beautiful” would have been a better choice, because it’s a much simpler song. “The Star-Spangled Banner” is a wonderful song, but it is a regal bitch to sing. Very few people can pull it off (how many recordings are there of professional and talented singers just botching the thing?). And it seems that even fewer people can remember (or have ever learned) all the words.

But as time has gone by, I’ve decided that we made the right choice with “The Star-Spangled Banner,” if for no other reason than it’s got both bombs and rockets right there in the song. It’s wonderful. Go listen to “Oh Canada.” Lovely song for a lovely country, but you get to the end of it and you really do feel like you just heard an Anne Murray song. There is something incomplete about it to the ear. There is not one bomb or rocket or anything else cool in “Oh Canadia.” And that is why Canadia will always be America’s hat. (We kid, of course….love to all my Canadian friends).

Okay. Time to go make things explode and strike blows for freedom via whiskey. Enjoy your freedoms, thank a vet, and God bless America.