A full spread of depth charges, Mr. Peej

See? See! See?

Latin American drug smugglers are stepping up their use of small, hand-made mini-subs in order to dodge U.S. military patrols in the eastern Pacific. The Coast Guard detected just 23 mini-subs between 2001 and 2007. This number "ballooned" to some 60 subs so far this year, according to Coastie Commander Cameron Naron. He estimates that two or three subs make the trip from Colombia to the U.S. every week, each carrying as much as 10 tons of drugs.

"Once perceived as impractical and risky smuggling tools," mini-subs are becoming increasingly sophisticated, Naron says, with combined steel-and-fiberglass hulls and radio suites rivaling commercial vessels. The Coast Guard believes the vessels are manufactured in rebel-controlled Colombian jungles, but where the designs come from, Naron can't say. "If you had that information, we'd be very interested," he told participants of a Pentagon-sponsored teleconference this morning.

Mini-sub "interdiction is dangerous business," Naron says. On September 13, a Navy patrol plane detected a 15-foot drug sub off the coast of Guatemala and a Navy frigate launched a Coast Guard boarding team to investigate. The team climbed aboard the sub's flat hull and knocked on the hatch, at which point the "startled smugglers attempted throw our personnel into the sea by backing down the [sub's] engines quickly," Naron recalls. "This maneuver nearly threw our people" off the sub, into its propeller. "They had to cling to the exhaust pipe."

Naron says Navy patrol planes are the primary means of detecting the subs, but sometimes a Navy or Coast Guard ship "gets lucky" and stumbles upon one. To boost efforts to crack down on drug-sub use, Congress last night passed legislation making it illegal for anyone to operate a "stateless" mini-sub on an international voyage.

And now you know why the Admiral Hassenpfeffer is so important. We are a prepared and ready ship with a 5 inch gun that can throw shells about the water like a proper fighting ship. I have ordered that more armor plating be added to the bridge area, which is my command post. Mr. Peej is quickly becoming a reliable number four. I have promoted Eva over him, because of his insubordination. And since Miranda is the only one who knows rudimentary navigation and how to pilot the ship, she is number two.

As we approach New York City and put into port this afternoon, I plan to find a crew of scurvy dogs and salty ones, too. I plan to find men (or perhaps some women who look like the lovely Eva who joined us in Groton when her "husband" failed to pay the fees for "importing" her to this country to be his mail-order bride) who will sail with me on the Admiral Hassenpfeffer to the Caribbean, where we will patrol the warm waters and alert the authorities to the presence of drug running submarines.

We lost three more depth charges yesterday. Stupid whales!

In other news, we have plenty of fish to eat. Some of it is kind of, well, pulverized.

Commodore Rogers, Reporting for duty...

The United States Coast Guard does not have the authority to make me a Commodore of the irregular citizen Navy that we are going to join in the Caribbean, so they advised me to not say this publicly. However, I will have the "lead" as the largest privately owned ship that will join a flotilla of ships that will do volunteer spotting and patrolling in the months ahead. Nominally, that makes me a Commodore, and I have the power to hold all meetings with other vessel captains on board the Admiral Hassenpfeffer, save when a Coast Guard or US Navy vessel commands us to appear for briefings. This means my blue and gold uniform must be ready to wear at all times. When I am not in that uniform, I shall adopt an informal all-khaki uniform with blackened boat shoes and a simple blue scarf around my neck--representing our "blue forces" designation, the marking on the superstructure and the blue flag we are going to display in the galley.

We have made fine progress in Groton this past week, despite the rain and the nagging of my ex-wives and the panic of the local authorities. Yes! They complained about my depth charges:



Typical wooly headed liberals. If you are going to spend several months operating in hostile waters against drug submarines, you must have a full complement of depth charges. I took possession of several hundred depth charges from a friend from Belarus and you would have thought that I had brought sick birds into this country. There was a lot of hemming and hawing, and I demonstrated that Peej and I could properly set the fuse to a safe depth and we exploded a couple out in the bay. Not many fish were harmed. Yes, one of those annoying sea birds was flattened on the buoy we dislodged after we severed the cable. Big deal! After proving we were not a threat to anyone, we were allowed to keep them. And they never said boo! about my Czech machine guns! How's that for story to tell in the bar?

My ex-wives are complaining that I will be taking Miranda but none of the boys with me. Really, my one son has his own restaurant to manage, a Taco Bell now that the Bennigan's chain has closed, another son is still at the SuperMax prison until 2256, and Byron "Buster" Rogers is reconstituting a mink farm and cannot be absent during the weaning process for the new litters.

We sailed yesterday from Groton and we're headed for New York. We actually went the wrong way--Peej couldn't get the Tom Tom to work.



Boston is lovely this time of year. We put in to dock, had lunch, and left Boston and headed for New York.

After we ended up in Nova Scotia, the navigating has been delegated to one of our crewmembers, a former model from Belarus named Eva. I'll have some pictures of her later.

We have twelve crew on board, and that's just until we can put in to New York and gather up what some would call a properly oriented assortment of salty dogs. We can run the ship with myself, Peej, our engine master and his four assistants (I don't remember their names, but they are cousins of Peej's mother and have been with us for thirty years or more) and our ship's pilot, Miranda Rogers, who learned to pilot the Admiral Hassenpfeffer from her grandfather.

Father is furious we took his ship, but has agreed to join us when we put into the Chesapeake next week.

The outrageous hatred of the American liberal

While perusing some blogs today (no, I do not care if they bail out Wall Street--I care if they bail out America, sir!) I was on the prowl for hate.

Hate comes in many forms. Liberals hate like it isn't anyone's business.

I discovered that a liberal has taken after the brilliant and talented son of Ann Althouse. Now, I abandoned Althouse's site in disgust months ago--too many nitpicking little wine drinkers. But she's as sharp as a tack.

The son also rises. Here, he talks about why the Obamanation is what has "lost" him:

5. The Palin pick seemed to catch them utterly by surprise.

My mom was gearing up for the Palin pick well in advance (blog post, Bloggingheads video clip). Lots of other pundits and bloggers were gearing up for the Palin pick. So why wasn't the Obama campaign gearing up for the Palin pick?

Now, as a conservative Republican from the northeastern wing of the party, foreign policy and experience ARE the reasons to vote against Obama. The Palin pick, eh. A mistake, sir. A mistake.

But the younger Althouse makes his case. Too bad a liberal has to bring his irrational hate to the table! Grr! This sickens me:

Ann Althouse wouldn't know personal responsibility if it bit her on the ass.

You see, the junior Senator from Illinois is running for President of the United States of America. He's not going to stop and kiss the ass of Ann Althouse's son. I realize that is a shock to your over-privileged, love the hell out of me, and make me the center of the universe kind of thinking. Because the son of Ann Althouse doesn't mean jack fucking shit in the equation of getting elected President.

My goodness! Such hatred!

Then I come to find out that this is the evil, corrupt website of one of my old nemesises from the Kevin Dumbo site. Hormonal Citizen packed up her bag of tricks and found herself stuck with a slew of hacks on something called They Gave us A Hemmorhoid.

Bah, liberals. I have things to do. You're not worth my time. I will say this--you are all quite lucky that I stay in my cage. For now.

Money Without Any Value

Sad to see this kind of money wasted--it sure would have made a useful tax cut:

A former Iraqi official estimated yesterday that more than $13 billion meant for reconstruction projects in Iraq was wasted or stolen through elaborate fraud schemes.

Salam Adhoob, a former chief investigator for Iraq's Commission on Public Integrity, told the Senate Democratic Policy Committee, an arm of the Democratic caucus, that an Iraqi auditing bureau "could not properly account for" the money.

While many of the projects audited "were not needed -- and many were never built," he said, "this very real fact remains: Billions of American dollars that paid for these projects are now gone."

Well, the money isn't "gone." The money paid for goods and services, bombs and killings, death and destruction, you see. The money is floating through the vast cesspool of the Iraqi economy, spreading throughout the region. It's being used to buy more bombs, more guns, more vicious horror. It is changing hands, buying allegiances, and doing whatever ill-gotten gains do--it's drying up and disappearing.

Go ahead and try this on for size--steal fifty dollars from someone. Spend it. Hope they don't find out about it. If you get caught, don't blame me. I suggest this as a scenario in order to teach you something, and you're entirely on your own and I disavow you because you should not steal fifty dollars just because some old man on a fabulous blog told you to do so.

What have you really accomplished? Well, your fifty dollars bought things for you, and now you have things you didn't earn. Good for you--what are they worth? What can you do with them? Is there any pride in having them? Did you buy food for a starving family or did you buy yourself crap? How do you know the value of anything when you don't know the value of hard work?

Ethics. Don't even try applying them without a license.

The Admiral Hassenpfeffer is Ready for Duty

How many times do I have to say this?

It's not about me.

It's about the America. And the only way out of my funk is to give myself back to the America in a way that will show everyone how fabulous I am.

That's not false modesty--few people have the talent for giving back to their country that I have. My country bailed me out--now I will bail it out. Yes, I did take the weekend off and I bought a fancy new wave runner. But that stimulated the economy, you see. That was me giving back to the America.

Nevertheless, it is time to do what the kids call "stepping up" and now I am stepping up. I have decided to make seaworthy the family ship of the line, the Admiral Hassenpfeffer, which is moored on the Atlantic seaboard and is ready for a seaworthy crew and a captain who can handle her. (That would be me, the Captain.)

The US Coast Guard is woefully short of ships, thanks the depredations of the Clinton Administration, which purposefully sank or scuttled hundreds of Coast Guard ships to let drugs get into the America for Roger Clinton's massive habit. The Dumbocrat Congress has not approved the rebuilding of that force, so I will outfit my family vessel and launch for a cruise in the Caribbean to commence in October, with a return in February. During that time, I will use satellite communications to blog and harass my enemies.

The Admiral Hassenpfeffer, in its warship days:



The US Coast Guard will outfit my vessel with a communications array. They will use us as a spotter and as a force multiplier in the Caribbean as we move between the Bahamas and the Panama Canal zone in big looping, flat sweeps that will allow us to spot and engage drug merchants and terrible characters on the high seas. We are to fold in with the US Navy operations. Our designation will be SS AH. They're even recognizing the actual name of the vessel! So long as I am also available for something called "search and rescue," which we will likely pretend to do while we're at sea, no problem. I am anticipating Cuban interdictory vessels and Venezuelan ships of the line. I am fearful of engaging Russian warships as well--fearful that the Admiral Hassenpfeffer's five inch gun can't sink them fast enough.

I have a shipment of five inch shells, both armor piercing and high explosive, being assembled at a munitions supplier as we speak. 1,200 rounds will be delivered in a fortnight--how about that for service? I am purchasing twelve Czech machine guns and 85,000 rounds of ammunition. Each sailor on my vessel gets a life vest, a bolt action rifle of indeterminate make (to save ammunition, I'm insisting on the use of bolt action rifles) and their own personal flaregun with six flares.

No word on the fate of my order of depth charges. I have a pending order of 250 with timers that I shall employ against drug running submarines. Apparently, to get that kind of thing made for your personal warship, you have to have a "waiver" from the United Nations or some such nonsense.

If I, as a personal private citizen of the America, wants to sail around in a converted World War I German corvette I think I should be able to sink drug running submarines if confronted by one, don't you think?

I'm glad you agree with me. There's room for forty crew members, who have to be hired in the next few weeks. Peej is handling that. I am busy. I have to have dress uniforms made.

Oh. Never mind.

Well, color me embarrassed...

STATEMENT of ACCOUNT
Balance: $2,458,968.26

Cash out allowance: $2,016,353.98

And so I have cashed out. Instead of nothing, I have about two million dollars. Thanks to the United States Government and the best President ever, I am able to walk away with some of my fortune. It shrinks more and more, but I still collect Social Security and a pension from Father's now-defunct company.

Peej! Come pick me up! We're solvent again, sir!

You know, these are the handiest things ever

My latest troubles have given me plenty of reason to roll over and lay on the futon all day, crying and moaning like a sick animal. That's not me, sir! That's not how I do things!

It will be for a while, but that's only because Miranda is at work and Peej has gone to see after Father for a bit. I don't begrudge Peej for wanting to spend time with Father. What I do begrudge him for is taking the Suburban. I'm stuck here and I have nothing to do.

I have decided to change my wardrobe. I am going to wear painter's pants--NOT sweatpants--because painter's pants have a lot of nifty pockets. A survivalist is someone who always has handy items around when needed. That's me!

I just order three pairs of these:



One pair for everyday wear, one pair for nice occasions, one pair for combat, as needed.

I spent some time on the Williams-Sonoma website, but they've already shut down the credit card that I was using over there. I had hoped to purchase some steak knives--the ones Miranda has here are dull. She uses them to cut up doll parts for her art projects. I've been here a day and a half and there's no meat in the house.

Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful. But this is the weirdest place I have ever found myself. I am nearly broke, I am living in my daughter's basement, and I am strangely not angry with the world or with the Lehman Brothers account manager who pissed away my money. I'm grateful.

I need to go find a belt that will hold those pliers. I chose expedited shipping. They better arrive soon.

Time to begin arming myself for the coming civil disturbances

It has occurred to me that it is time to prepare for a world where Republicans are no longer able to keep things running smoothly and efficiently. We may see a return to those terrifying days in 1993 when "Clintonism" ran amok and got us involved in wars, ruin and civil strife.

How about these babies, huh?



Huh?

Not so inclined to mess with your uncle Norman, now are you?

That's a dragon on each handle, and it's very well done. I may have to get a special set for fighting and keep these in a glass case somewhere for emergencies. I would hate to crack open someone's skull and gouge the wood where the dragon's tail streams down the shaft.

There is nothing wonderful about an unemployed banker

Today has been a better day than yesterday. In the span of just a few days, I have gone from being comfortable to being less than comfortable. I do like sleeping on the new futon that Miranda and I bought at a place called "Discount Furniture Barn." We bought two of them--Peej is sleeping in the guest room and I am sleeping in the basement. Peej is allergic to spiders, which is quite strange because he's from India of all places, so I agreed to sleep in the basement. Fortunately, there is a half-bath down there and I can sit on the toilet and read at night when I cannot sleep--perhaps that is too much information.

This sort of thing makes my blood boil.

Yes, I know we're all going to suffer eventually for their idiocy and venality (and for the 'Labour' government which has so grotesquely mollycoddled them), but the prospect of 500,000 bankers losing their jobs just makes me want to run out into the street waving a rattle and scarf. Never has redundancy been so richly deserved.

Excuse me, but bankers are not "redundant." Banks make the world go around in proper sequence and order. If we didn't have banks, we'd have caravans of wealthy people, as I used to be, traveling about with armed guards and burlap sacks full of coins. Bankers are necessary and wonderful; bankers are sacred in a profane world.

Oh, I beg your pardon. The writer of that tripe is British! And their country is REALLY in the toilet, unlike ours! Never mind.

I'll be sitting on the toilet for a while, laughing at his expense over that one.

Time to stock up on survival gear

The process of transforming myself from a "city dweller" into a hard-bitten survivalist has been one that I have feared was coming for a very long time. I have always considered myself a survivor of many horrible fates, and now, in my old age, I have sneered at the worst ruin of all, financial ruin.

I would buy guns, but I cannot afford them right now. So, instead of guns, I'm going to outfit myself in the appropriate attire.

This looks good:



So does this:



If I were in the woods for several days at a time, these garments would be more sensible than a blue dress shirt, penny loafers, and khakis, don't you think?

Tomorrow I will buy shoes. Shoes that take into account the fact that I have a high instep.

Oh no

I have now lost everything, except my health and the loyalty of my friend Peej.

7.9 million dollars in assets, gone.

I am selling the house in New Hampshire at a loss, because it was tied to the assets that I just lost.

We are now going to live in Maryland (again) and sell the home that was burned to the ground by stick urchins. I shall live with my daughter, Miranda, in the basement of her townhome.

I shall return to greatness. I am...

An American Lion.

Today, I have lost 3.2 million dollars.

I'm trying to be stoic, but today has been, shall we say, a complete and utter disaster for me.

I have lost about 3.2 million dollars, US. Had I been able to move to Switzerland last month, all of that money would be safe and sound in a bank in Bern.

Pardon me while I let out a full-throated scream.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Bored

I spent three or four hours the other day in my garage, sitting on my replica steel cot from my days in prison, wearing flip flops and sweat pants, staring at this picture:



I've come to the conclusion that I have a lot of personal problems. I am shocked by the decline of what used to be my Republican Party. In my mind, there has only been one woman ever qualified to be President of the United States--Jeanne Kirkpatrick--and I don't know where my party went wrong.

I am not giving them any more money. They got $46,800 from me in this cycle, more than half of which was bundled through friends who are now quite upset and don't want to give any more. I do not blame them!

Anyway, the most important thing is, I have a number of personal problems right now. Peej says I am losing weight. Peej wants to get me a carpet for the garage, but the concrete floor is the only thing keeping me going right now. I am thankful for the computer, but I would really rather just sit and wait.

What I am waiting for, I do not know, sir. When it happens, and when I regain my purpose, I shall let you know.

Sweat pants! Yes, they are comfortable. No, they are not appropriate.

Sweat pants!

Sweat pants!

I have been denied entry to Switzerland

...as an immigrant.

Yes!

I have filed the application and the paperwork to immigrate to Switzerland. When they discovered that I am a convicted felon, they denied my application.

I am still living in the garage, wearing flip flops, sweatpants, and I am using the concrete floor as my comfort zone.

Things are bad right now. I am no longer a registered Republican. I went to the courthouse and registered as an independent. In New Hampshire, this is tricky business. They looked at me funny because of the sweat pants.

As I said, these are bad times for me. Bad times.

I am broken and shaken and hiding in my garage

I am sorry to have to report this, good people, but the demise of my beloved Republican Party has left me a in a state of personal emergency. I am working entirely in the garage now, unable to be in the main house. I need a concrete floor to remind me of jail, you see. When I am reminded of jail, I am better able to cope with the idea that the Republican Party is choosing to nominate a McCain/Palin ticket.

As many of you know, I supported Rudy Guiliani, and my dream ticket for November was Guiliani/Brownback.

Peej has returned to help me get through the days ahead. I have watched the Republican Convention on CSPAN, and I must say--could they have at least found some homeless people to fill in the seats on either side of the stage? It looks like a sparsely attended Supertramp concert at an arena that's barely half full.

I keep rushing to the toilet, throwing up repeatedly. No, I do not have the flu. I have the sense of creeping doom that accompanied me in 1996, when it became apparent that Bob Dole was going to lose to Bill Clinton.

My life is in tatters. I thought blogging would help. I even opened up a trading account with eTrade and I actually made a few grand, for fun. Blah! I feel extremely blah! right now.

Blah!

If you call the main house, let it ring. If I'm not able to answer, Peej will answer. I don't know how long I'll be in the garage. The Internet connection here is dial-up. I'm wearing sweatpants, if you can believe it.

Sweatpants! That's how bad things are for me right now.