Prosaic anger

So here's the question of the day: Was Michael Brown removed as the on-site director of hurricane relief because he's a blithering idiot and now the entire Western Hemisphere knows it, or because they didn't find as many bodies as they thought?

Talk amongst yourselves.

I'll go ahead and give Bush a few props for getting the aid bill taken care of quickly. He is taken off of the nasty letter list for today. Spoke to the mother today - she was sitting on the concrete slab in the house going through the disaster of pictures. My mother's organization system for pictures was not highly advanced and it usually involved her throwing everything into the bottom drawer of the bookcase in the living room. This means that everything in that drawer, including vacation photos, family pictures, childhood birthdays, etc, is stuck together and mildewing as we speak. Now those of you who know Miss Jean know that she is the pillar of strength. The rock of ages, as it were. And when Miss Jean sits there and cries on the phone with me about how her wedding photos are unrecognizable, something's got to be done.

A few days ago, Stacey wrote me about some Arschlog who thought it would be a good idea to trash New Orleans on an advice blog. I believe he actually referred to it as a "craphole" and one of the least beautiful cities he's ever visited. What I want to know is where people get off trashing my hometown. Even if you're from French Lick, Indiana you have some pride about your hometown. You have attachments to the places you went when you were a kid - can we say Old Town Soda Shop - and even if you don't live there anymore, there is a lingering sense of belonging. If I had to go back to Slidell, I know that I could be okay there. It's home, in a sense, and that's non-transferable. You can't touch that, and for someone to suggest that not only does New Orleans suck (where does he live, under a rock?) but that it's not worth rebuilding is like forsaking the last two hundred years of culture and history and saying it doesn't matter because I have my Ipod.

These are the people who should be pulling bodies out of the water and cleaning up the oil leaks in St. Bernard Parish because they are obviously a waste of oxygen. Somewhere, an asthmatic is gasping for air because this piece of processed meat is breathing and spewing his poisonous opinions.

Call your mother, tell her you love her. Send her some nice peppermint foot cream and a gift certificate for a pedicure. And if you see Miss Jean before I do, kiss her face.