“My god,” the old man exclaimed to himself, wearing a tattered red robe, forming the sign of the cross on his chest. “Truly,” he said to himself, “a sight to behold, for thee is the safe passage from desolate treasures and forbidden fruits.”

It was all an allusion; a disrupting vision of beauty soiled by unwelcomed events that brought about awful truths.

Gripping his wooden cane as a child grips a blanket after awaking from terrible nightmares, surely expecting a monster to emerge from darkness and swallow the child whole, the old man approached, leaving behind a wall that mirrored the tall the skyscrapers, centered with a massive metal gate patrolled with countless well-armed men.

Spending two lifetimes in the Wasted, a section of old America left alone by the three great Administrators that divided the country into quarters, the old man was taken aback by the civility, the riches displayed. It was a murdered feeling of his naïve innocence that revolted him while admiring perhaps one of the most gorgeous beauty’s he had ever seen. In his most optimistic of minds, he prayed the people that lavished in luxury were ignorant beyond the Sector Three walls, lied to by a Government that elected prosperity over human rights, science over the word of God and security over freedom.

This wasn’t the Wasted. For here no dead lay rotting in the unkempt streets, attacked by merciless Enforcers or a man-made virus that killed infants with an unrelenting attack on their immune systems. Here, the streets were often cleaned by automated vehicles with oversized brushes and high pressure sprayers. Malnourishment didn’t exist in the form of mutations or general deformities from the radiation spills, especially localized in the southeastern quadrant of Old America. A region the old man provided relief for, allowing those certainly to die, a moment of God’s presence, a living embodiment for confession, to ease their passing. It’s truly hard to imagine that the Wasted and this mega-metropolitan, surnamed Sector Three, once unified the greatest country the world had every known.

Gangs didn’t enforce eviction orders, discharging the final breath of those that once lived, for worthless treasures when food, clean water and fuel, the rarest of resources, were scarcely found. Law enforcement roamed these streets, with black sticks emitting a thin blue glow at their tips hooked around their belts while people walked freely, lavishing in their great fortunes, earned by the wealth of being born into great families.

With his cane, the old man pressed forward, reaching the outskirts where the shortest buildings lined with an embracing perimeter around the beautiful metal structures that punctured the clouds. Even though the moon was full with energy and life, the metal structures that bound this mega-metropolitan was filled with so much life, from the metal structures, the tall lamps in the streets and the many cars that passed without so much as the sound of a sneeze.

He was old, and his life’s goals largely achieved, yet always consumed with the voice that spoke to him, the old man would bow to each person that made eye contact with him. His pilgrimage, not of his own heart, led him to walk the very streets of a city that banished religion many seasons ago. People shot odd stares, which he related as mere curiosity.

So sad, he thought. They’re truly ignorant of the pain that burdens this world.

Lined with storefronts, ranging from disposable cell phones, reusable food stores to clothing shops with gowns cropped with a golden fleece and the sparkle of small diamonds in many windows, the streets were active. Couples slowly walked, hand in hand, expressing themselves with the feeling born of a new love. Cars in black, red, blue, green and even white whisked past, many with newer technologies that replaced gas with some new marvel.

Slowly walking, with the tick of his wooden cane tapping on concrete with each step, the old man fought the urge to cry. Purify in its purest form was not pure, rather diluted with illusions of grander, for the prosperity of it all comes within a scale too small for any common mind to fathom. God help us all.

When a violin played a sad son, with his radish colored eyes as the audience, it deepened his treasured misery. For in that bath he warmed himself with the reminder that God is in all things and no matter what, he reaches out with a soft hand to embrace everyone; even those that do not believe or have long since killed him within their many storms of selfishness.

NO! Peace, safety and comfort lived here, but God would not embrace a soul from these towers of the devil’s greed; nor would Christ, the savior of those that walk so arrogantly without purpose, or meaning. These were the heretics of nihilism. Youth and time long past due, the old man raged with fire in his heart; a desire to raise swords against his enemies, many of whom walked carelessly down the streets having killed a God. How can such people exist? How can the world of so much misery not see that once they killed God, that storms of the devil’s wrath baked upon those souls with vengeance against those that God choose to love?

But was it really their fault? Ignorance was a gift from a madman Administrator that forbids religion. Probably because he feared that properly guided souls wouldn’t accept the filth that governed so mercilessly. Stories of epic blood poured from the desires of wickedness crossed his ears on his travels here. If not for the families that crossed the great river that split the country, or the Mountain civilization in the East, he would have come with surprises of the fainted, rather than shielding his soul and heart with spiked swords and knights of the Templar, who are still rumored to exist.

Nearly four weeks ago, a pilgrim of the Sector One that held a great city nearly 100 miles wide on the northern East Coast, the Administrator’s aide Natalie Cousins, met the old man and asked that he visit the Potosi zones inside of Sector Three. It was an unusual request, considering the two had never met, though the old man knew of the Cousins’ faith and her request was genuine. While he wasn’t sure if it was the Administrator himself that asked he go, he knew the Government in Sector One was much more liberal, very open with a freedom that mimics what the Old United States stood for. Rumor always persisted of William Seymore’s ultimate desire to resurrect the once great country.

His goal, bringing the faith amongst the poor, was gladly accepted by his peers, who buckled under worrying hearts at the danger the old man would face. Spreading the word of God was something that spoke deep into his pumping heart, even if it meant eventual death.

However, it wasn’t here where he’d lead the flock of the righteous, amongst the filth that walked past him with a purpose greater than his own. Just beyond the towers, through the business zones and the entertainment districts, roughly another ten miles, sat a small section in town where slaves gathers after their masters were finished with them. The locals called it Potosi. The old man called it vile.

After two days of strenuous travel, interrupted by naps on the cold asphalt in the alleys, through the glorious, corrupt, fantastical layers of both heaven and hell, the old man reached the Potosi zone.

Children smoked in soot, with women forced into prostitution, men into manual labor, the many servants and slaves that were granted no rights, no homes, and no freedoms and, god forbid, food to fill their starving stomachs, easily outnumbered the masters they served. They were scared, tired, and many. So many.

He to fell to a knee, next to the dimming fire, and said, “let us pray.” His fingers crossing his chest giving the sign of the cross, the old man began.

Two years later

The irony wasn’t lost on the broken old man, showing the wear of many hours of torture that his brothers had seen nearly millennia ago, including a great Saint of his own bloodline. Scanning the court room, a building that reminded him of St. Peter’s Basilica of all things, featured four great stone pillars at the entrance with a distinctive doom on its roof. Aside from the paintings long devoured by layers of white paint along the walls and ceilings, with much of the interior completely restructured, it was unmistakable that this building was converted from a great cathedral into a court house. You can not get away from God’s law, the old man mused to himself.

The pews remained, as hundreds watched a high-profile case against the old man that led a rebellion that nearly sacked the Capitol City, deep inside Sector Three, not ten miles from what used to be called Houston. His wrists wrapped in chains, escorted by two men wearing black Kevlar, foggy helmets and electrified batons, the old man, broken into fragile bone, sunken eyes and wasted breath, slowly, yet proudly, walked to the lone table that stood before an erected bench where the judge would take his place.

A Judge of one, to hear the case, try it, and render judgment, all within an hour, provided that he wasn’t hungry for an early lunch. Of course the judge was appointed by the Administrator, or one of his inter-council. The state would judge this case swiftly, the old man feared. He knew, once this moment was taking place, not much was left for him and events that followed would end with his death.

Countless nights crying against the gray concrete walls in his cell, the old man didn’t fear much. But like so many people, he feared the uncertainty of death. His belief, his faith, begged him to remember that his death would only transmit him to a greater life, that of which stands aside his brothers and of God. Two years ago, he would have gladly died, for his experience included nothing but suffering and misery, his own included. He was tired, and ready to parish in the lands where his fathers and brothers died before him, to join them in eternal sleep. Now he was nearly out of time.

The words he preached led to a unification of slaves and masters, of race, creed and gender, all uniting because the word of God touched them. It was soon after that his sermons led to riots, eventually turning into rebellions, finally suppressed on the steps of the Capitol City. Those that led the violence of the riots and rebellions died during the suppression. All that remained was the father, the old man. Yet, he proudly admits that he fathered the inspiration of people’s spiritual revival even though he begged for the word of God not to be taught with vengeance and violence.

Not now, not this way. The old man pleaded to himself. I’m not supposed to die, for the word of God hasn’t spread through the blood of those that need his love. Not everyone has heard me. .

Hushed tones generated an eerie silence throughout old cathedral walls that the old man thought of as magnificent designs, where his forefathers and forebrothers once prayed freely to the Gods of their choice. Ah, a time that was.

“Court is in session,” a voice spoke from hidden shadow. “The honorable Thomas Nichols, presiding.”

A wiry frame that was hidden by his tall stature and a thick encompassing black robe that sat menacingly on his shoulders, the Judge strode up the stairs with grace and the perception of power. His thick black hair was invaded with lines of gray, as if painted stripes were suddenly fashionable in men’s hair. Once he surveyed the courtroom, his eyes locked on the old man’s, who quickly realized his shield wasn’t strong enough to hide the fear that betrayed his face.

“Mr. Henry More,” the Judge began, taking a seat with all observers behind the old man simultaneously taking their own seats. “You stand accused of treason as an agent sent by an enemy of this state” the judge said with a slight English accent which gave him the added perception of relative intelligence. “What do you say to these charges?”

The old man with chains wrapped around his arms and legs locked at his waist, stood as tall as an old man could. Wrapping his head around the word agent, the old man paused. He was no agent. But the quick mind of the old man quickly realized that the government of Sector Three viewed this as much as a public relations stunt, as it did brandishing their own justice. Could the state use him as propaganda against their own civilians, to remind those that rise against authority? Or could it be that the state was using the trial for some larger purposes, a display of power against rival states? It was then and there that the old man trembled with the thought his death was going to be nothing but sacrifice against everything he believed in. They would use him for their own ends, and that was a meaningless death.

“I am no agent of any enemy against any member within this state. But alas, I do not understand the specificity of my charges,” the old man cautiously responded with a smiling judge, who from the likes of it, enjoyed the occasional squabble with those he could devour with drunken words and a wooden gable.

“The Code of Law, Article 1, Subsection 13 states that no man, woman or child may conduct practices of mysticism, such as religion, organized religion, or group religion that promotes the idea of God, or other mythical deities, messiahs or general religious icons, including historical or present relics, all of which may be construed as offensive to the state, therefore classified as a treasonable offense.” The judge looked up and narrowed his eyes, “And treason, Mr. More, is punishable by death.”

The old man lowered his head when the Judge continued, “Your preaching religion and the fable that is God as a truth, when in fact, religion and God are pathetic ways to not only rich your own pockets, but to incite chaos and general anarchy, which in of itself promotes death and the destabilization of our great state. It is imperative that childish stories such as these remain outside our borders where the Wasted can perish to their Gods and the civilized, such as us, may prosper.”

The Judge shuffled paper and continued. “We have witnesses that claim you personally led The May Rebellions in which 1,553 military died in the span of three months, with at least 10,000 civilian casualties, many of whom were elderly and children.”

The old man felt hollow. So many people died, ranging from fathers protecting their families to children of fatal interest lining the streets to see the pilgrimage of Christ. The old man had heard stories that the Enforcers, the military police arm of Sector Three, using innocents as human shields. Disbelief would have run deep through his blood, if it wasn’t for the multitude of its travesty that he witnessed through his own heartbroken eyes.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He wanted to spread the word of God. Yet, some used it, like a radical, to generate support for a massive rebellion that lasted many months, spilt so much blood and bastardized the word of God. It took the remaining strength in his tired body to hide the sadness, only to pick up his head to see the viperous stare from the Judge.

“Quite honestly, old man, we have enough evidence to execute you as soon as we please, as you’re the destroyer of peace, and the master of chaos. The robe you where confirms our suspicions that true religion is never to be practiced while our great leader, The Administrator, breathes enlightenment from a culture based on science, success and solidarity.”

“Preaching the word of God is a thing of beauty, your honor. It brings us comfort and guidance, strengthening our resolve for love and mercy…”
“Yet,” the showboating Judge interrupted, “you knew our laws coming into Sector Three, did you not? Religion is strictly prohibited and of high treason, punishable by decapitation.”
“I know of no law above the word of god,” the old man said in defiance.
“Witnesses claim that you prayed within the Potosi zones, raising arms that led to this pathetic rebellion. Do you deny this?”
“I ask, my lord, why such a law was created. Is it because the Administrator fears the deity of something much more powerful, and much more important than himself? Does he worry about idols that possess reminders of guilt within his own heart,” the old man asked, surprised to see the Judge smiling, as if approving. Why, the old man had no mind to comprehend. Perhaps there were fractures within the government. Perhaps the old man condemned himself so fully, that the Judge can make an early lunch.  

The old man smiled in return and continued, “Because his weapon is love, not hatred, for many others exhibit those traits, do they not? I’m fully reconciled with the thought that I will soon join him in our quest to bring God back to this world. I am not, however, honored by the grace of his will, in that his word has been forgotten. It’s true,” the old man said pleading to the Judge and anyone else willing to listen in the room, “many have bastardized the word of God for their own means. Whether that’s money, property or a misguided meaning for warfare. By God, the United States of America was apart of such a conflict that led us to a world in which we live in today.”

“But the word of God, and his son, Jesus Christ, the true word, is about forgiveness, love, honor, virtue and salvation. Before the wars, before” the old man paused, “everything changed, communities were drawn like families. Neighbors helped raise the children of other families. The poor had a means to eat, for neighbors would go a night without dinner so others could feed. The weak had a means to defend themselves, for the entire community would stand next to each other to hold the lines of unity. That, your honor, has long left us. The Wasted and the Potosi are just examples of our low quality today. Yet they are also a shining example of how strength is found in a unified soul, and not through the strength of arms.

The room was so quiet that when the attentive Judge cleared his throat, everyone in the room suddenly shifted in their seats, remembering that this, was in fact, a trial.

“So you do not deny the charges leveled against you, sir?”
“I deny that I was sent by anyone other than that of God’s will. I do not deny my role as leader of the rebellions,” the old man said, bowing to his spoken words that will end his life.
“Through your own admission of guilt, you will be executed by decapitation tomorrow morning at 10AM. What do you say to this?”
“Lord Jesus, through the power of the Holy Spirit, go back into my memory as I sleep.” The Judge slammed his gable, yelling above the amazed crowd that such a man would recite prayer while having his life terminated because of it. “Every hurt that has ever been done to me,” the old man continued. “heal that hurt.” He shouted louder above the judge, and much more proudly. “Every hurt that I have ever caused another person, heal that hurt. All the relationships that have been damaged in my whole life that I am not aware of, heal those relationships. But, O Lord, if there is anything that I need to do, If I need to go to a person because he or she is still suffering from my hand, bring to my awareness that person. I choose to forgive, and I ask to be forgiven. Remove whatever bitterness may be in my heart, Lord, and fill the empty spaces with your love.”

Just as the guards were dragging him out, the old man turned to the crowd, many of whom were shaking their heads in disbelief, as if children experienced something radically new for the very first time. He smiled and lowered his head in honor of reaching those that he knew he touched.

Little did the old man know, amongst the observers in the courtroom, sat a child nearing his twentieth year that would change everything based on what he saw today.  

The Judge’s Chambers

Minutes after the trial concluded, Judge Thomas Nichols greeted his secretary, who artificially smiled before lowering her head in obvious disgust. Nichols felt her sadness, for it gripped his fragile heart like a steel fist squeezing unrelenting. He couldn’t hear her muted sobs, but he felt them.

Once inside his chambers, the Judge removed his heavy black robe and threw it carelessly over the back of his antique leather chair that many of his guests used. Placing his hands on the back of the chair, the Judge closed his eyes and leaned slightly forward, as if the two weights perched atop his shoulders were that of the Administrator, who specifically wanted a show of his rule, rather than a display of honest justice. Witnesses were never found to subjugate the trial, yet they appeared when the Administrator demanded them.

What had he done? Why, in a world so filled with desperation, does this man come along to free break the laws, forcing the Judge to kill a man of God? A martyr of God, destined to change a world where religion and God were banished like a plague so infectious that it could wipe out half of our civilization. Yet, it was he that condemned him to death. It was he that felt his heart split in half, his humanity dissolving. He cursed the old man, enthusiastically, for this was beyond the heart break promoted in his gut.

The Judge shifted towards his drinking cabinet, a six-shelved unit encased with a dark finish and duel glass doors. The middle shelf held several glasses, clear-like crystals with enough girth for Nichols’ large hands to grip, but delicate enough that they could shatter with a powerfully emotional twist that would be undone by the emotions ravaging the ruthless and composed Judge. A bin held fresh ice cubs, one shelf below the glasses and the top three units held to his most expensive bottles. He gently lowered three ice cubs from the bin into the glass, so softly he was afraid of cracking the glass. Everything breaks at his hand, why not his glass?

He stared at the line of bottles in front of him, ranging from cheap whiskeys in front to the more oft-used high-end bourbons near the back. That’s it. He arched his hand over each selection, pulling an unopened 100-year old bottle Chivas Regal Royal, feeling the weight in his hands. A quick poor and the glass was half full.

Turning to his right, he found himself staring in the mirror. Nichols, as vulnerable now as he was excited to originally hear of the rebellions two years ago, wiped the water growing from his radish-hue eyes. Am I such a coward that a man over seventy years has the courage to die honorably for what he believes in? The Judge grinned slightly and looked upon the floor. God’s word doesn’t apply to me, for I murdered a man of God.

A quick sigh, like a disgruntled laugh escaped his lips. He turned his glass in a circular motion, watching the Chivas Regal Royal push the three ice cubs, noticeably smaller, along the edges of the glass.

I’m in a position of power, of influence. I’m in the Administrator’s greater council, and when the time comes, when he must be disposed, I will honor the spilt blood of Saints and burn every non-believer alive. This, I promise, father Henry More.

First, he needed forgiveness.

“Please, God,” the Judge said, slightly craning his neck so he could look upward. “Forgive me for trespassing on the leader of your flock.” He tipped the drink into his mouth and let the alcohol sit there momentarily. After swallowing it, he flung his glass like a grenade across the room until it shattered into a tiny thousand pieces, mirroring his own heart.

The Next Morning

Wearing gritty torn clothing, gray and deeply stained by filth and dirt, the old man walked down the concrete hallways from his cell, passing onlookers, many of whom reached out their tortured hand. Some cheered, not for his eventual death, rather what he represented. He felt honored, grateful and terrified.

Chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles, interlaced through a lock on his waist, impeded his movements, especially painful where they cut deep into his skin. Once the morning sun penetrated the concrete walls near the entrance, the old man raised his hands to sheild his eyes. Against his frail skin, he felt the energy of the sun, which had been absent for many weeks. Blinded by white, he turned towards the heavens and smiled, “Soon, my gracious Lord, I will feel your warmth – and the security of your shield. This world no longer belongs to us, as many have so long abandoned your grace. But by your grace, the world will be ours, once again.”

One the recently constructed perched platform, erected five feet with enough space for ten men to stand, stood the menacing executioner with a black hood hiding his face. The old man, a servant of god, was pushed up the wooden stairs. Observers, counting in the hundreds were quiet; many showing distaste for an inevitability that they didn’t truly understand. Others cursed at the old man, for being an engineer of chaos.

“Please God, give me the strength to fulfill your will,” the old man said quietly. Then he raised his voice. “People of America, children of the United States, sons and daughters of God, pray for me. For while I speak the true word of God whose time I fully expected to come I’m but a man, of flesh and bone. And I’m scared. Will you help me?” No one shouted, no one cheered, not a single word was spoken, a single breath drawn.

One of the two men that escorted the old man from his cell kicked out his knees, forcing him to kneel down, causing great pain to shoot through the old man’s body. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.”

Shoving his arms wide and slightly to the front, his back arched slightly, allowing his neck to settle on a freshly crafted block of wood. Scanning the crowd, he saw men besides their families, women with their children with several men dressed with expensive suits, flanked by Enforcers near the back. They came, undoubtedly, to see the deed done. Still, the old man wondered if any were touched by the word of God, like he was, and his forefathers before him. Blood thick with tradition, martyrism and Sainthood, the old man felt a surge of terror, yet honored to follow those that walked before him.

It was then that his proudest moment became realized. Somewhere, deep in the crowd of hundreds, a shout echoed out, “God bless you father Henry More.” His ears deceived him, surely, for this wasn’t the same crowds that he spent many days and nights preaching with; this wasn’t his flock. He recognized no faces. No, his mind was playing tricks on him. Surely.

Still, it didn’t prevent him from reassessing the crowd, most of whom were calm, solemn, showing the sadness of a lost parent. Others lowered their head in honor, and others still mouthed the same murmurs shouted through the crowd of “God bless you”, disregarding eventual retribution from a ravenous empire that freely killed God.

Smiling with pride, tears freely falling, the old man was ready. A hushed silence swept the crowd, when one final man shouted, “God take you, father.” Moments from his death and he couldn’t be happier. His legacy will be lasting while outweighing the forfeiture of his life, like his forefathers before him, who died for Christ, martyrs to the greater good.

The old man prayed with a smile, asking for God’s love, certain that life is but a small price to pay for his lasting legacy that would bring God back into the hearts of all. “God bless you, father.” His eternal soul, the diminishing fire now roaring, would finally come to rest. For having seen too many horrors, the old man felt the comfort of knowing that his martyrdom would bring about a lasting change, a seed planted for the tree of prosperity of all men’s souls.

Sleep, my prince, God’s booming voice thrust into his ears that only he heard. He expanded his arms outward, like Christ did on the cross. Doves scattered away from the breath of God’s winds in the distance, just above the children that sat perched on their father’s shoulders.

Just as he finished his prayers, a warm stinging sensation throbbed the back of his neck.

Martial, the things that do attain
The happy life be these, I find:—
The richesse left, not got with pain;
The fruitful ground, the quiet mind;

The equal friend; no grudge, no strife;
No charge of rule, nor governance;
Without disease, the healthful life;
The household of continuance;

The mean diet, no delicate fare;
True wisdom join’d with simpleness;
The night dischargèd of all care,
Where wine the wit may not oppress.

The faithful wife, without debate;
Such sleeps as may beguile the night:
Contented with thine own estate
Ne wish for death, ne fear his might.

Carson Palmer. Is this a way to suggest that if Palmer doesn’t succeed this year, that he’s done, thrown in the compactor of abyss as another great Bengals quarterback that couldn’t win us a Super Bowl? Is this a way of hinting that the Bengals should move on with a new quarterback next year? No, no, NO! But if one player has the most to prove on this team, factoring previous successes, then really, is there anyone bigger than Palmer? In truth, the perception of recent disappointments really hasn’t been 100% Palmer’s fault. We could cite the injury in 2008 that held him back that year — even though in the four games he did play (one of which was with the injured elbow against the Cowboys), Palmer averaged 182.8 yards-per-game and recorded only three touchdowns against four interceptions. We could cite the shift with a rushing offense in 2009, along with little help from receivers and Tight Ends as more reason not to fault Palmer.

(Read more at Cincy Jungle)

Its vast improvements like what the Bengals featured last year that makes you understand that the little things can initiate a metamorphosis from mediocrity into the playoff contender.

(Read more at the Washington Post)

In late April, Arizona governor Jan Brewer signed into law one of the, if not the most, stringent laws on immigration in this country; a law that several communities and states are considering adapting. The key point of the law is that the word illegal in illegal immigration means enforcement. Many against the law decry broader powers with law enforcement to question people that they suspect as being undocumented. Many bemoaned that police would be racially profiling, therefore civil liberties are in danger.

[SB 1070s]

But the question is this: Is Arizona doing what the Federal Government wouldn’t? Several sections in Arizona’s Immigration Law actually use and refer to Federal statutes within the United States Code.

The legal scholars we spoke with told us to take a close look at two key sections of Title 8 of the U.S. Code. Section 1304e requires that "every alien, eighteen years of age and over, shall at all times carry with him and have in his personal possession any certificate of alien registration or alien registration receipt card issued to him." Those who fail to comply will be guilty of a misdemeanor and will be fined $100 and can be imprisoned up to 30 days.

Section 1306a says that, "Any alien required to apply for registration and to be fingerprinted in the United States who willfully fails or refuses to make such application or to be fingerprinted, and any parent or legal guardian required to apply for the registration of any alien who willfully fails or refuses to file application for the registration of such alien shall be guilty of a misdemeanor and shall, upon conviction thereof, be fined not to exceed $1,000 or be imprisoned not more than six months, or both."

What many are failing to neglect — just as people forget that 11 lives were lost during the explosion that caused a rupture on the oil pipeline in the Gulf — is why this law was needed. Is Arizona worried undocumented workers? Financial troubles? No. Too many crimes are being committed by illegal immigrants for the Arizona government to sit idle. Arizona had asked for Federal help before passing the law, which fell on deaf ears.

Arizona took matters into their own hands. They actually enforced the "illegal" part in illegal immigration and gave police broader powers to enforce the law. Once they did, the Federal government stirred from their slumber with their rusty sword and wooden shield. Unfortunately, it was to react to Arizona’s Immigration law rather than comprehensive national immigration reform that deals with illegal immigration.

In late March, Robert Krentz, a rancher along the Arizona-Mexican boarder was found dead. Murder by an illegal immigrant was suspected. The family released a statement:

“We hold no malice towards the Mexican people for this senseless act but do hold the political forces in this country and Mexico accountable for what has happened,” the family said. “Their disregard of our repeated pleas and warnings of impending violence towards our community fell on deaf ears shrouded in political correctness. As a result, we have paid the ultimate price for their negligence in credibly securing our borderlands.”

The murder, in large part, caused the Arizona state government to act — I know, a governmental body that actually reacts to protect their citizens, physically, mentally and financially without being all up in your face about it? The Pinal County Sheriff echoed concerns about illegal immigrants.

“We’ve had numerous officers that have been killed by illegal immigrants in Arizona,” Pinal County Sheriff Paul Babeu said Monday at a Capitol Hill news conference. “And that shouldn’t happen one time.”

The ACLU issued "travel advisories" to anyone traveling to Arizona during the Fourth of July Weekend. Executive Director Anthony D. Romero writes on the organization’s website:

"ACLU affiliates across the country are issuing these alerts because it is imperative that individuals understand their rights before traveling in Arizona. Under Arizona’s racial profiling law, people who look ‘foreign’ are more likely to be stopped for minor infractions and then asked for their ‘papers’ if police believe, based on their appearance or accent, that they could be in the country unlawfully. We hope the alerts provide people with some measure of protection from illegal harassment from law enforcement and inform them of their rights should they encounter it."

Through all of this, the Federal government, the entity whose duty it is to protect American borders reacts by trying to file a lawsuit against Arizona, who only wants to protect herself. Protestors gather around the nation — protestors that are unlikely to have actually been affected by the dangers illegal immigration in Arizona. You even have to wonder if they’ve stepped foot in the state.

President Barack Hussein Obama said:

“I’m ready to move forward, the majority of Democrats are ready to move forward, and I believe the majority of Americans are ready to move forward. But the fact is without bipartisan support, as we had just a few years ago, we cannot solve this problem."

Five bucks to anyone that can correctly point out the topic he’s talking about. Is this the card he uses when giving a speech on everything? The quote comes from a speech in front of a 250 immigration-rights advocates at American University in Washington. But I wouldn’t be so willing to believe that Americans are "ready to move forward" with Obama in the lead. It’s rarely an occurrence these days that Obama speaks for even a majority of Americans. As a result of the Federal government’s offensive against Arizona’s immigration law — you know, the law that the Federal government also has in the United States Code — Arizona is forced to spend $250,000 of tax dollars to help clean up the state’s immigration image, due to lowering tourism and businesses being affected. You can thank the Federal government’s blatant disregard of its own laws for this.

Again, Obama and the Democrats in charge of the Federal Government worries more about people that are in-state illegally than they are their own American citizens. Look at the eventually rising costs of energy services thanks to a ladder to recoup costs once the energy companies are exponentially taxed in Gas-and-Tax. Gas prices will rise. Travel and tourism will decline because it makes more economic sense for families to refuse the punishment from energy companies who are in-turn punished by the Federal Government. Furthermore, added taxes on companies will surely cost jobs and one report shows that over 125,000 jobs were lost in June. Not a good time to implement policies that will cost even more jobs.

Juan Leonardo Qunitero was charged with molesting a 12-year old girl. Deported in 1999 as an illegal, he returned in 2006.

Rodney Johnson was a 12-year veteran on the Houston police force. Married with five children, he was big, kind-hearted and unafraid of working the toughest gang beats or late-night shifts.

On Thursday, Sept. 21, around 5:30 p.m., he pulled over a white Ford pickup driving 50 mph in a 30 mph zone in what should have been a routine traffic stop. The driver, Quintero, had neither a driver’s license nor any other identification so, after a pat down, Johnson handcuffed him and placed him in the back of his patrol car. But Johnson missed the gun in Quintero’s waistband. The prisoner pulled it out and fired four times at Johnson at close range.

The story continues, deaths caused by illegal immigrants. This is what the Democrats are trying to protect, and what the Republicans indirectly failed to address. Inaction by reaction to a law that makes sense for a state in a warzone is self-defeating. No, it’s depressing to learn that through all of this time, our Federal government’s stance to not get involved with America’s protection while people die is appalling; considering that one likely refusal to address the issue is the fear of upsetting the latino vote.

When people throw political arguments against the wall hoping that it makes sense to some half-wit, they forget that born out of this is the death of good people, the destruction of whole families, all because the immigration vote is worth more than the lives of Americans. This is Obama’s change. And this is why we’ll see a lot of change in 2010 and 2012.

BEING DICTATED BY THE SLOTTING SYSTEM
Perhaps the most important thing to note regarding the signing process for first round draft picks, is where they’re slotted. The unspoken rule is that a guy is paid more guaranteed money the higher he’s drafted. Furthermore, there’s typically a decent raise from that slot the previous year — this year’s sixth overall draft pick, Russell Okung, will average more guaranteed money than what Andre Smith is “earning”.

(Read the rest at CincyJungle.com)

However, for these benefits, sometimes you should show some appreciation of the fact that you got lucky as shit when you were born into this country. It’s like saying thank you when someone gives you a gift for no reason.

Arlington High School fails badly at showing their appreciation living in the greatest country on Earth. More importantly, they fail their students.

The Arlington, Mass., school committee has rejected the 17-year-old’s request to allow students to voluntarily recite the Pledge of Allegiance, because some educators are concerned that it would be hard to find teachers willing to recite it, according to a report in the Arlington Patch.

Harrington had presented school officials with a petition signed by 700 people, along with letters of support from lawmakers including Sen. John Kerry, D-Mass., and Sen. Joe Lieberman, I-Conn. 

One committee member spoke.

Some committee members voiced concerns about forcing people to do something that might violate their beliefs – including religious beliefs. Among the no-votes was committee member Leba Heigham.

“Patriotism is a very personal thing for all of us, but I do not think it is in the school committee’s best interest to mandate that any of our employees recite the pledge,” she told the Patch.

Heigham’s understanding of voluntary must go back to when peowot was more commonly referred as a nominative, accusative or genitive translation.

The student that has caused so much of the commotion in Arlington High School is named Sean Harrington and when he was a freshman, he noticed that the school didn’t have any American flags and didn’t recite the Pledge of Allegiance. Three years later, he raised a little army of students that petitioned to bring flags to classrooms and to recite the Pledge. He won with the flags but not the Pledge. Learning of the failed vote, Harrington will enter his senior year clearly still ambitious enough to fight on.

“I’m not a person who quits and I don’t back down. It’s a very righteous cause and needs to be followed through until the end.”

Good choice.

In this video, a General Electric Executive faints during a Joe Biden speech. Maybe faint isn’t the proper word. Maybe he’s sleepy. Are you sleepy? Take a nap. There, there.

Then the graceful politician of the people went to a custard shop (he called it an ice cream shop), helped out the crew and when the manager said to Biden that he could "lower our taxes" in exchange for getting a free Ice Cream, Biden did what he does best. Be all dickish and stuff.

Former President George Bush may have made up words in the English dictionary, but at least he was smooth doing his own gaffs, actually making us believe that he knew something we didn’t. Biden? He’s just wrecking machine, causing us to laugh while holding our guts. Thanks god for Joe Biden.

Nate Davis takes a look at both sports.

Call me the Ugly American, but a 3-0 tally in the NFL is a slow first quarter. In soccer, it’s a blowout.

Well said, Nate. Well said.

Still, I’m trying. If not a good friend of mine, who is a soccer fanatic, becoming overly impressed with my initiation to discover something outside my box, then my growing affinity for reality television (aka, in my world… sports) is growing. It helps explain why I accidentally watched Tennis for over 15 minutes not staring at Serena tree trunk legs.

Meet the Ultimate Grilled Cheese BurgerMelt — "Black Angus burger topped with lettuce, tomato and mayo between two whole grilled cheese sandwiches". Friendly’s newest offering, a 1,160-calorie cheeseburger heavenly bliss, is being criticized for it’s "high levels of saturated fat, cholesterol and salt."

The Wilbraham restaurant chain is “thumbing its nose at its customers’ health” and should be “shut down by the health department,” said Michael Jacobson, executive director of the Center of Science in the Public Interest, a Washington-based consumer health advocacy group.

With 83 grams of total fat and 36 grams of saturated fat, the BurgerMelt well exceeds the U.S. Food and Drug Administration’s recommended daily allowances. It’s also very high in salt, with more than 80 percent of the daily recommended level.

“It’s almost a parody of itself,” Jacobson said. “It’s so high in calories, fat and salt that it’s just shocking that a company, in this day and age, would market such a harmful product. These are the kind of products which show up on ‘Saturday Night Live.’ ”

Thank god this is America. But I’m sure some self-indulgent idiot — the same shithead that mimics a cough walking by a smoker outside — will agree with Jacobson. Some idiot will say, "you know what, we should do more things to limit the free choices of hard working Americans who just want a 1,160-calorie burger on their way home." If this is the best you got, trying to dictate what free Americans can choose, then I almost feel sorry for you. Seriously.

So I did some extensive research (aka, Google search) and found out that Center for Science in the Public Interest is another faction from the group We Love Being Dicks. For example, the CSPI is preparing a lawsuit because McDonalds sells toys to children to promote their happy meals.

“McDonald’s is the stranger in the playground handing out candy to children,” said CSPI litigation director Stephen Gardner. “McDonald’s use of toys undercuts parental authority and exploits young children’s developmental immaturity—all this to induce children to prefer foods that may harm their health. It’s a creepy and predatory practice that warrants an injunction.”

What. The.

After doing more extensive research (aka scrolling down on my mouse after Google search), a website was created that countered CSPI called CSPIScam.com. The site writes:

The Center for Science in the Public Interest (CSPI) and its founder, Michael F. Jacobson, are not as nice, sweet, and unbiased as CSPI’s name might imply. The group routinely uses scare tactics justified by "junk science" and media theatrics as part of their ceaseless campaign for government regulation of your personal food choices.

They also write that "willful manipulations and junk science calculations that CSPI used in its petition to the FDA over acrylamide in food. The Center for Consumer Freedom (CCF) submitted a reply brief to the FDA, detailing how CSPI arbitrarily “adjusted” government statistics and made faulty assumptions about the minimal risk to consumers from dietary acrylamide."

So CSPI aren’t just dicks, they’re liars.