Decades ago, I discovered an interesting mom-and-pop operation in the frozen North that worked like so: The owners would advertise their snow-removal business. Customers would sign up for their service. Snow would fall. No one would show up to remove the snow. More snow would fall; again, no one would show. A few days after each snowfall, customers would receive a bill for snow removal. I was one of those customers.
When I called to point out to the lady who answered the phone that no one had removed my snow and I had to do it myself, she said, "Oh, that happens all the time." I cancelled the service.
The next time it snowed, I was awakened by the sound of shovels scraping on my driveway. By the time I made it to my front door, a two-man crew was just finishing up. I asked them what they were doing. "Uh, removing snow?" I told them that I had cancelled the service. They shrugged their shoulders and left.
A few days later I received a letter from a west coast collection agency demanding payment for snow removal services that were not performed. I answered with an explanation of why their bill was in error and a suggestion as to what they could do with it. Never heard from them again.
But I thought, wow, what a neat idea! Offer something, take orders, don't deliver, wait a few days and send out bills! No personnel, equipment or maintenance costs, just the minimal overhead of advertising, billing forms, envelopes and postage. After all, some folks don't even bother checking their bills; they just pay them. And if someone does figure out the scam, well, just apologize for the "clerical mistake" and move on.
Think that this is the perfect business plan, that there's no way it can be improved? Well, you're wrong, Uriah Heep-breath.
What if I were to show you how to cut out even the minimal overhead and get the money up front? What if I'm talking millions instead of chump change? Yeah, you'd buy that book, wouldn't you?
First, you must move to Florida. See, Florida has what it calls the Quick Action Closing Fund. The QACF is an incentives program that gives upfront grants to companies in exchange for promises to create x-number of new jobs.
Second, you must have a vision. An example would be State Representative Jamie Grant's 2011 idea to develop a mobile application that would link medical, insurance and legal records for family and first responders.
Third, you must convince pursestring holders that your vision has merit. Grant sold poverty-stricken Hardee County's Industrial Development Authority on his by promising "lots of jobs" and $26 million in net sales revenue by 2014. All he would need, he said, is $2.5 mil in seed money.
The IDA, more excited than a ponies player with a hot tip, coughed up the bucks. 18 months later the money is gone, but no one knows on what because there is no product, no profit and no jobs.
Other examples are more egregious. In 2009, another grant-seeker promised to build a high-tech, digital film studio in St Lucie County and hire more than 500 people at high wages. The state cut his company a check for $20 mil upfront. Three years later, it shut its doors and filed for bankruptcy.
If you are looking to get in on this action, better move quickly. State Senator Dorothy Hukill is targeting QACF to reduce Florida's financial risk.
"This is an upfront sum of money," she said of the grant program, "and I'm looking to provide security for the taxpayer investment."
Better late than never, huh, Dotty? Just do me a favor and hold off a bit while I set my own place at the public trough, will you?
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Post-Partum Abortion, DIY-Style
Chad Wolfe, 31, from West Newton, Pennsylvania, was found dead on top of an elevator car at the bottom of a shaft at Tampa International Airport.
"Hello, Chad."
"Who the hell are you? And where the hell am I?"
"I'm Saint Peter."
"Right. And I suppose this is Heaven."
"No, this is Heaven's gate, pardon the allusion."
"Whatever. Why am I here?"
"Don't you remember anything about what happened?"
"Well, let's see...I remember I was on a plane flyin' to Florida with my girlfriend, drinkin', havin' a good time, when that bitch stewardess cuts me off. Then she cops a 'tude, know what I'm sayin'? Talkin' about how she was goin' to have me arrested when we landed if I didn't settle down. Hell, I was just tryin' to get another drink, and she goes all Nurse Ratched on me. Talk about a buzz kill!"
"Ah, she thought she was giving you a break, letting you slide. Probably should have called the police. At least you'd still be alive."
"I know, right? So then, we get to the airport, get our baggage, head over to the elevators, and my girl, she's all anxious to get goin', you know, but I want to grab a smoke, check out the view from the top. So she gets on one elevator to go down, and I get on another to go up. And there I am, on the seventh floor, lookin' around; I finish my butt and walk over to the elevator. I push the down button, and I'm waitin' and waitin', and nothin's happenin', so I pull open the door to see what's wrong, you know? Next thing I'm fallin' through the air, sorta in slow motion-like, and now I'm standin' here."
"I gather you were pretty well sloshed from the time you got on the airplane, then got even more snockered during the flight. A video from the airport surveillance cameras shows you walking erratically while taking a swig from a miniature bottle, and another one showing you climbing up on one of the potted plants."
"So? I had a few drinks, sure. I was on vacation, goin' to Florida, goin' to meet my girl's folks. But I was cool. I can handle my booze."
"But it wasn't just the vodka, was it? You were also taking Xanax."
"Look. It ain't my fault I'm here, when you think about it. I mean, first, they serve me booze on the plane, when I'm obviously drunk already. Then they don't have me arrested when we landed, which they should have. Top it off, no one's supposed to be able to pull open elevator doors. That's just invitin' disaster. I know one thing, my folks' lawyers are gonna have a field day with this one. They'll sue everyone--the airline, the terminal, TSA, even the maker of the elevator. Damn shame I won't be able to enjoy any of it. So, how 'bout it? You gonna let me in, or what?"
"No, I don't think so. We forgive most everything, but we can't abide stupidity."
"What now? Demons come out of the shadows and whisk me away to Hell? You got an elevator that takes me down? Haw! How ironic that'd be!"
"Hell? No, Chad. You've been watching too many horror movies. No, you'll be reborn to an already overburdened Ethiopian family. Then, if you're good before you starve to death, you'll be reborn to an Indian family of Untouchables in Calcutta. After a few millennia of righteous living through a progression of, well, hellholes, perhaps, just perhaps, you'll be granted rebirth in some comfortable, civilized environment, like where you were to begin with before you threw it all away."
"So, this is really your fault. I mean, with you being omniscient and all, you should have known I wasn't goin' to hack it."
"Good-bye, Chad."
"Wait! Can I get a drink, first?"
"Hello, Chad."
"Who the hell are you? And where the hell am I?"
"I'm Saint Peter."
"Right. And I suppose this is Heaven."
"No, this is Heaven's gate, pardon the allusion."
"Whatever. Why am I here?"
"Don't you remember anything about what happened?"
"Well, let's see...I remember I was on a plane flyin' to Florida with my girlfriend, drinkin', havin' a good time, when that bitch stewardess cuts me off. Then she cops a 'tude, know what I'm sayin'? Talkin' about how she was goin' to have me arrested when we landed if I didn't settle down. Hell, I was just tryin' to get another drink, and she goes all Nurse Ratched on me. Talk about a buzz kill!"
"Ah, she thought she was giving you a break, letting you slide. Probably should have called the police. At least you'd still be alive."
"I know, right? So then, we get to the airport, get our baggage, head over to the elevators, and my girl, she's all anxious to get goin', you know, but I want to grab a smoke, check out the view from the top. So she gets on one elevator to go down, and I get on another to go up. And there I am, on the seventh floor, lookin' around; I finish my butt and walk over to the elevator. I push the down button, and I'm waitin' and waitin', and nothin's happenin', so I pull open the door to see what's wrong, you know? Next thing I'm fallin' through the air, sorta in slow motion-like, and now I'm standin' here."
"I gather you were pretty well sloshed from the time you got on the airplane, then got even more snockered during the flight. A video from the airport surveillance cameras shows you walking erratically while taking a swig from a miniature bottle, and another one showing you climbing up on one of the potted plants."
"So? I had a few drinks, sure. I was on vacation, goin' to Florida, goin' to meet my girl's folks. But I was cool. I can handle my booze."
"But it wasn't just the vodka, was it? You were also taking Xanax."
"Look. It ain't my fault I'm here, when you think about it. I mean, first, they serve me booze on the plane, when I'm obviously drunk already. Then they don't have me arrested when we landed, which they should have. Top it off, no one's supposed to be able to pull open elevator doors. That's just invitin' disaster. I know one thing, my folks' lawyers are gonna have a field day with this one. They'll sue everyone--the airline, the terminal, TSA, even the maker of the elevator. Damn shame I won't be able to enjoy any of it. So, how 'bout it? You gonna let me in, or what?"
"No, I don't think so. We forgive most everything, but we can't abide stupidity."
"What now? Demons come out of the shadows and whisk me away to Hell? You got an elevator that takes me down? Haw! How ironic that'd be!"
"Hell? No, Chad. You've been watching too many horror movies. No, you'll be reborn to an already overburdened Ethiopian family. Then, if you're good before you starve to death, you'll be reborn to an Indian family of Untouchables in Calcutta. After a few millennia of righteous living through a progression of, well, hellholes, perhaps, just perhaps, you'll be granted rebirth in some comfortable, civilized environment, like where you were to begin with before you threw it all away."
"So, this is really your fault. I mean, with you being omniscient and all, you should have known I wasn't goin' to hack it."
"Good-bye, Chad."
"Wait! Can I get a drink, first?"
Saturday, March 16, 2013
A Tale of Two Women
Why is it that some folks find sustenance in table scraps while others feast at a banquet and then pee in the soup?
Deborah Jones is the go-to girl of the State Department's Middle East section. She's like Mikey in the old cereal commercials. When no one else wants it, give the assignment to Debbie. She'll go anywhere.
Deborah has a BS in history from BYU and a MS from the National War College of the National Defense University.
She is a career foreign officer, having joined State in 1982. Her assignments include Abu Dhabi, UAE, Ethopia, Iraq, Argentina and Syria. She was principal officer at the US Consulate General in Istanbul.
From 2008 to 2011 she was ambassador to Kuwait. I suppose if you're going to be an ambassador to anywhere in the Middle East, Kuwait would be somewhere in the middle of your dream sheet, certainly down the list from, say, Dubai, but up from, say, Yemen. But the desert is nobody's idea of Mecca, pardon the pun. The A-list--London, Paris, practically anywhere in Western Europe--is reserved for fat cat contributors to presidential campaigns.
But Deborah is clearly a trouper, endeavoring to persevere. Well, guess where she's off to for her next ambassadorship. If you said Libya, take an A.
Libya. You know, Benghazi? Where her predecessor was murdered in an attack on the American diplomatic mission?
Yet away she goes, smile on her face, stiff upper lip, and all the while probably wondering whom she pissed off to get her ticket punched for that suicide run into harm's way. I mean, she has to feel like a command pilot colonel who's aiming for a star and suddenly finds himself flying a desk in Goose Bay, Labrador.
Jennifer Carroll is a retired Navy lieutenant commander (major in the real military). She has a BA in political science from New Mexico and a MBA from Saint Leo University. Before entering politics she ran a public relations firm.
She was Executive Director, Florida Department of Veteran Affairs and served as a state representative in the Florida House from 2003-2010. While a representative, she continued to do work for the PR company and filmed an advertisement promoting pseudo-charity Allied Veterans of the World. She was elected lieutenant governor in 2010.
Allied Veterans, authorities have found, is a criminal enterprise that exploited veterans to make money. This past week, almost 60 people associated with the company were arrested on various charges, including illegal gambling, racketeering and money laundering. When investigators started eyeballing Jenny and her association with the organization, she immediately resigned. Afterwards, Governor Rick Scott, trying to put a positive spin on his selection of her as his running mate, referred to Jenny as "tireless" and described her as the hardest-working lieutenant governor in the country. Impartial observers called her irrelevant and an embarrassment to Scott.
Two axioms are apropos, here: One, no good deed goes unpunished. And two, a person will rise in an organization to his or her level of incompetence.
Deborah Jones' career has pretty much dead-ended. When the reward for decades of outstanding service in the backwater dregs of the planet is a posting to the Beirut (Detroit?) of Africa, you gotta be thinking of updating your resume.
Jennifer Carroll's career is just dead. When you are on the way up and there is no limit to how high you can go, and you self-destruct, never mind the resume. You need to start consulting an attorney and concocting a plea deal to keep out of the slam.
How ironic if Jenny avoids prison while Debbie wastes away in hers.
Deborah Jones is the go-to girl of the State Department's Middle East section. She's like Mikey in the old cereal commercials. When no one else wants it, give the assignment to Debbie. She'll go anywhere.
Deborah has a BS in history from BYU and a MS from the National War College of the National Defense University.
She is a career foreign officer, having joined State in 1982. Her assignments include Abu Dhabi, UAE, Ethopia, Iraq, Argentina and Syria. She was principal officer at the US Consulate General in Istanbul.
From 2008 to 2011 she was ambassador to Kuwait. I suppose if you're going to be an ambassador to anywhere in the Middle East, Kuwait would be somewhere in the middle of your dream sheet, certainly down the list from, say, Dubai, but up from, say, Yemen. But the desert is nobody's idea of Mecca, pardon the pun. The A-list--London, Paris, practically anywhere in Western Europe--is reserved for fat cat contributors to presidential campaigns.
But Deborah is clearly a trouper, endeavoring to persevere. Well, guess where she's off to for her next ambassadorship. If you said Libya, take an A.
Libya. You know, Benghazi? Where her predecessor was murdered in an attack on the American diplomatic mission?
Yet away she goes, smile on her face, stiff upper lip, and all the while probably wondering whom she pissed off to get her ticket punched for that suicide run into harm's way. I mean, she has to feel like a command pilot colonel who's aiming for a star and suddenly finds himself flying a desk in Goose Bay, Labrador.
Jennifer Carroll is a retired Navy lieutenant commander (major in the real military). She has a BA in political science from New Mexico and a MBA from Saint Leo University. Before entering politics she ran a public relations firm.
She was Executive Director, Florida Department of Veteran Affairs and served as a state representative in the Florida House from 2003-2010. While a representative, she continued to do work for the PR company and filmed an advertisement promoting pseudo-charity Allied Veterans of the World. She was elected lieutenant governor in 2010.
Allied Veterans, authorities have found, is a criminal enterprise that exploited veterans to make money. This past week, almost 60 people associated with the company were arrested on various charges, including illegal gambling, racketeering and money laundering. When investigators started eyeballing Jenny and her association with the organization, she immediately resigned. Afterwards, Governor Rick Scott, trying to put a positive spin on his selection of her as his running mate, referred to Jenny as "tireless" and described her as the hardest-working lieutenant governor in the country. Impartial observers called her irrelevant and an embarrassment to Scott.
Two axioms are apropos, here: One, no good deed goes unpunished. And two, a person will rise in an organization to his or her level of incompetence.
Deborah Jones' career has pretty much dead-ended. When the reward for decades of outstanding service in the backwater dregs of the planet is a posting to the Beirut (Detroit?) of Africa, you gotta be thinking of updating your resume.
Jennifer Carroll's career is just dead. When you are on the way up and there is no limit to how high you can go, and you self-destruct, never mind the resume. You need to start consulting an attorney and concocting a plea deal to keep out of the slam.
How ironic if Jenny avoids prison while Debbie wastes away in hers.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Is This What We've Come To?
You can't make this stuff up.
A pastry on which a seven-year-old boy was nibbling at a Maryland school gradually took the shape of a gun. In the process of handling it, he pointed it at another student, who apparently thought she was going to be shot. The boy was suspended for two days. Perhaps one day parents somewhere will receive a letter like this:
Dear parents,
It is with a heavy heart that I write to you about an incident that occurred yesterday at our beloved Hugo Chavez Memorial Elementary School of Social Engineering, which involved six-year-old second grader and possible future serial killer, Cal Lotion.
Cal--we call him Itchy--came to school with what appeared to be sniffles. He had in his possession a travel-size package of tissues. We naturally assumed he carried them to wipe his snotty little nose. We were horribly wrong.
Itchy was observed in class removing a tissue from its package, holding it up to his face, blowing into it through his nose, crumbling it and placing it on the edge of his desk. As the tissue sat there it looked more and more like it had been purposely folded. His teacher perceived that the tissue suspiciously resembled a firearm; specifically, a .357 magnum.
The teacher asked Itchy what he had on his desk. Itchy picked up the pseudo-weapon and swung it toward the teacher. A little girl sitting between Itchy and the front of the classroom screamed and ducked down under her desk. The teacher yelled, "Get down NOW!" Some of the students sitting closest to the door bolted into the hallway. The rest scrambled under their desks.
I was able to corral one of the kids who were running down the hall. I asked her why she was running, and she pointed back toward the classroom and shouted, "Gun! Gun!" I immediately locked down the school and called 911.
In a matter of minutes SWAT showed up. I told them about the hostage situation and directed them to the classroom. They burst into the room, guns aimed and sweeping, spotted Itchy holding the realistic-looking weapon, tackled him and wrestled him to the floor. They confiscated it and placed it in an evidence bag. Unfortunately, when they did the tissue lost its shape, making criminal prosecution unlikely. Nevertheless, at my insistence, they handcuffed Itchy and led him out to their meat wagon. This little miscreant may beat the justice system, but he's not going to beat me. Oh, no. He's not going to beat me!
I called Itchy's parents, Aloe and Vera, and informed them of the arrest of their son. Although their outrage and hostility were expected, I nevertheless found it inexplicable, given our zero-tolerance for weapons of any sort, actual or imaginary. I told them Itchy had been removed from the rolls of our school and strongly suggested they seek psychiatric help for him at the earliest. You may rest assured that this particular terrorist will no longer pose a threat to your child.
You may also be secure in the knowledge that tissues have been added to the list of contraband objects. Henceforth, tissues of any sort, whether packaged or loose, are banned. Monitors will be assigned to our restrooms and will strip-search every child who goes number two. Children caught trying to remove tissue from restrooms will be expelled. Any child caught trying to introduce tissues to our campus will be denied entrance and arrested.
I have made available to all who seek counsel a team of psychologists who specialize in post-traumatic stress. I, myself, have sought their help and plan to join a support group made up of those who have had similar experiences. I strongly urge you to avail yourselves of their professional expertise.
Sincerely,
Arthur Chipping, Principal
A pastry on which a seven-year-old boy was nibbling at a Maryland school gradually took the shape of a gun. In the process of handling it, he pointed it at another student, who apparently thought she was going to be shot. The boy was suspended for two days. Perhaps one day parents somewhere will receive a letter like this:
Dear parents,
It is with a heavy heart that I write to you about an incident that occurred yesterday at our beloved Hugo Chavez Memorial Elementary School of Social Engineering, which involved six-year-old second grader and possible future serial killer, Cal Lotion.
Cal--we call him Itchy--came to school with what appeared to be sniffles. He had in his possession a travel-size package of tissues. We naturally assumed he carried them to wipe his snotty little nose. We were horribly wrong.
Itchy was observed in class removing a tissue from its package, holding it up to his face, blowing into it through his nose, crumbling it and placing it on the edge of his desk. As the tissue sat there it looked more and more like it had been purposely folded. His teacher perceived that the tissue suspiciously resembled a firearm; specifically, a .357 magnum.
The teacher asked Itchy what he had on his desk. Itchy picked up the pseudo-weapon and swung it toward the teacher. A little girl sitting between Itchy and the front of the classroom screamed and ducked down under her desk. The teacher yelled, "Get down NOW!" Some of the students sitting closest to the door bolted into the hallway. The rest scrambled under their desks.
I was able to corral one of the kids who were running down the hall. I asked her why she was running, and she pointed back toward the classroom and shouted, "Gun! Gun!" I immediately locked down the school and called 911.
In a matter of minutes SWAT showed up. I told them about the hostage situation and directed them to the classroom. They burst into the room, guns aimed and sweeping, spotted Itchy holding the realistic-looking weapon, tackled him and wrestled him to the floor. They confiscated it and placed it in an evidence bag. Unfortunately, when they did the tissue lost its shape, making criminal prosecution unlikely. Nevertheless, at my insistence, they handcuffed Itchy and led him out to their meat wagon. This little miscreant may beat the justice system, but he's not going to beat me. Oh, no. He's not going to beat me!
I called Itchy's parents, Aloe and Vera, and informed them of the arrest of their son. Although their outrage and hostility were expected, I nevertheless found it inexplicable, given our zero-tolerance for weapons of any sort, actual or imaginary. I told them Itchy had been removed from the rolls of our school and strongly suggested they seek psychiatric help for him at the earliest. You may rest assured that this particular terrorist will no longer pose a threat to your child.
You may also be secure in the knowledge that tissues have been added to the list of contraband objects. Henceforth, tissues of any sort, whether packaged or loose, are banned. Monitors will be assigned to our restrooms and will strip-search every child who goes number two. Children caught trying to remove tissue from restrooms will be expelled. Any child caught trying to introduce tissues to our campus will be denied entrance and arrested.
I have made available to all who seek counsel a team of psychologists who specialize in post-traumatic stress. I, myself, have sought their help and plan to join a support group made up of those who have had similar experiences. I strongly urge you to avail yourselves of their professional expertise.
Sincerely,
Arthur Chipping, Principal
Saturday, March 2, 2013
What Are Friends For?
A friend of mine e-mailed his contacts to request we hold off on sending him anything because he was going into surgery to replace a shoulder. I called him to wish him well, and his wife answered the phone.
"Hello?"
"Hi. Is Mister Smith there, please?"
"Who's calling?"
"This is Doctor Allen from the Gender Reassignment Clinic. I'm calling to advise that Mister Smith's surgery is rescheduled for next week."
"I'm sorry. There must be some mistake."
"Is this the Smith residence? Does William Smith live there?"
"Yes, but he's not having...what surgery did you say he's scheduled for?"
"Gender reassignment. You know, sex change."
"Sex change? My husband is having his shoulder replaced."
"What? Oh, I get it. He didn't discuss this with you, did he? I just assumed he had. Wow! This is awkward."
"Look, I don't know who this is, but my husband would never, ever undergo a sex change operation. There's been a serious mistake, here."
"Well, he underwent all the counseling sessions, passed all the psychological evaluations. We don't do this lightly, you know. We make sure he really, truly wants this operation or we just won't do it."
"I don't believe this. He actually wants to become a woman?"
"Yes, ma'am. Said he is a, quote, lesbian trapped in a man's body. Said he wants to experience the same pleasure that women have told him they experience with him."
"But...."
"And not only that, he said after the operation he'll be able to drive off the ladies' tee."
"Now I know this is wrong! My husband doesn't even play golf. Wait. He just walked in the door. Bill, come talk to this guy, will you? He says you want him to replace your bulge with a camel toe."
"Hello? Who is this?"
"Oh, hi, Bill. How ya doin'?"
"I figured it was you. What'd you tell her? What's she going on about?"
"I have no idea. Women, right? I just called to say good luck with your surgery tomorrow."
"Yeah, uh, well, thanks."
"Don't sweat the surgery. Piece of cake. It's the rehab that'll be a bitch."
"Great. Thanks for the heads-up. Jerk."
"Hey, don't shoot the messenger. I'm just trying to be a bud."
How's that saying go? "With friends like me, you don't need...."?
"Hello?"
"Hi. Is Mister Smith there, please?"
"Who's calling?"
"This is Doctor Allen from the Gender Reassignment Clinic. I'm calling to advise that Mister Smith's surgery is rescheduled for next week."
"I'm sorry. There must be some mistake."
"Is this the Smith residence? Does William Smith live there?"
"Yes, but he's not having...what surgery did you say he's scheduled for?"
"Gender reassignment. You know, sex change."
"Sex change? My husband is having his shoulder replaced."
"What? Oh, I get it. He didn't discuss this with you, did he? I just assumed he had. Wow! This is awkward."
"Look, I don't know who this is, but my husband would never, ever undergo a sex change operation. There's been a serious mistake, here."
"Well, he underwent all the counseling sessions, passed all the psychological evaluations. We don't do this lightly, you know. We make sure he really, truly wants this operation or we just won't do it."
"I don't believe this. He actually wants to become a woman?"
"Yes, ma'am. Said he is a, quote, lesbian trapped in a man's body. Said he wants to experience the same pleasure that women have told him they experience with him."
"But...."
"And not only that, he said after the operation he'll be able to drive off the ladies' tee."
"Now I know this is wrong! My husband doesn't even play golf. Wait. He just walked in the door. Bill, come talk to this guy, will you? He says you want him to replace your bulge with a camel toe."
"Hello? Who is this?"
"Oh, hi, Bill. How ya doin'?"
"I figured it was you. What'd you tell her? What's she going on about?"
"I have no idea. Women, right? I just called to say good luck with your surgery tomorrow."
"Yeah, uh, well, thanks."
"Don't sweat the surgery. Piece of cake. It's the rehab that'll be a bitch."
"Great. Thanks for the heads-up. Jerk."
"Hey, don't shoot the messenger. I'm just trying to be a bud."
How's that saying go? "With friends like me, you don't need...."?
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