Generation Execute

 Jello Biafra once questioned, "How do we teach 'Thou Shalt Not Kill?'"

Well, twenty-seven of our current fifty states have a death penalty on their books. As of mid-2026, there were nearly two thousand prisoners on death row here in these United States. States such as California have capital punishment, but the governor has placed a moratorium on carrying out any executions. 

As you may expect, the majority of the states that continue to kill their convicted felons can be found in the south. Tennessee would be one of those states. That is where, this past Wednesday night, authorities attempted to kill convicted murderer Christa Pike. The only woman on The Volunteer State's death row was injected, not once but twice, with a supposedly lethal dose of pentobarbital. These two injections came after the execution was initially paused as a stay was issued by an appeals court, only to be overturned a few hours later by the "Supreme" Court. 

At this point, I do not feel compelled to defend Ms. Pike, who never disputed her part in the 1995 murder of a classmate when she was eighteen. As part of the lengthy conviction and appeals process, Christa spend the next thirty-two years waiting for her punishment. At the age of fifty, she was scheduled to be the first woman executed by the state of Tennessee in two hundred years. I do feel the need to question how, after the first dose of drugs only succeeded in making her arm "feel funny," why officials didn't back up and try to figure out what went wrong before attempting a second dose. 

Tennessee Governor Bill Lee, for his part, expects "a comprehensive, third-party review to determine exactly what occurred." It might have been a bad or degraded batch of pentobarbital. Or maybe Christa's veins were blown and unable to accept the injection. This was enough to get Tennessee state Senator Marsha Blackburn up off her chair, insisting a return to the electric chair, a method that had not been in use for the past six years. Since 1998, your standard Tennessee execution shifted to that of lethal injection, but "Old Sparky" has been available.

Just in case. 

In the meantime, Christa Pike has been taken to a medical facility to try and get her healthy enough so that she can be strapped to another device in hopes of finishing the job. 

I dunno. Sounds a little cruel, and if I may, not so unusual. 

Birds Of A Feather

 It's a little trifle of a trivia quiz. I use it to pep up a conversation when I am stuck waiting for something else to begin. I ask, "What teams have mascots that are not animals?" This tends to get a ball rolling that includes such "easy" answers as The Yankees, The Reds, The Phillies, The Mariners, and so on. There are plenty of examples outside Major League Baseball, but it provides even those without an encyclopedic knowledge of sports an opportunity to stretch their memory. 

I will pause for a moment while you begin your own search function.

I hope that was satisfying. Now, the next time I encounter this situation, I change the parameters of the question. Instead of asking for non-animal examples, one of the other participants asked if we might try and come up with as many bird teams as possible. Orioles, Blue Jays, Cardinals, top the list if you start with baseball, but you might have found yourself discovering the bird thread available in Atlanta. The Falcons and the Hawks both call the ATL home.

My guess is that this is where Senator Eric Schmitt stopped in his inquiry cycle, Which might explain why he went to all the trouble to head on over to Kinko's to get a big poster printed up for his chance to humiliate former prosecutor Jack Smith. The Missouri Republican attempted to put Mister Smith not in Washington but in Atlanta on the night of February 3, 2024 when the NBA franchise Hawks were hosting the Golden State Warriors, who qualify for the non-animal category. 

“So your testimony today is that you did not go to a Hawks game on Feb. 3, 2024. Is that correct? What would you say if I had a series of text messages from your team that said you were in Atlanta at a Warriors-Hawks game on Feb. 2, 2024?” The hope was to catch Mister Smith lying about being in the Big Peach at the same time that Fulton County District Attorney Fani Willis was facing scrutiny for her romantic relationship with Nathan Wade, the special state prosecutor she hired for the county’s election-interference case against a certain convicted felon. 

There was some head-scratching moments as the connection was finally made: Jack Smith had attended a women's basketball game in Maryland. In that collegiate contest, the hometown Terrapins hosted the Iowa Hawkeyes, featuring the phenomenal Kaitlan Clark. This game was taking place some six hundred fifty miles from the location suggested by Senator Schmitt's posterboard allegation. 

Hawks. Hawkeyes. Easy mistake to make. Especially if you're in a rush while standing at the Kinko's "Gotcha" Counter, waiting for your order to be completed. 

But he won't be invited to play in any of my trivia time-sinks. 

Bought And Paid For

 "I just don't think it's right to be using taxpayer money in that way, particularly if it's tied to political campaigns," says South Dakota Senator Mike Rounds. "I think they need to rethink that strategy."

Is he talking about the Reflecting Pool? The Triupmal Arch? The Ballroom Bunker?

Nope. Senator Mike, who happens to be a Republican, is referring to the advertisements that ran during college and pro football games over the weekend, as well as in their native habitat, Faux News Sunday. If you happened to be fortunate enough to have missed these bits of cinema triste. The feature the lumbering bulk of the convicted felon shambling down a hallway, along with this audio taken from a campaign speech he gave back in 2024: "This is the final battle. With you at my side, we will demolish the deep state, we will expel the warmongers from our government. We will drive out the globalists, we will cast out the communists, Marxists and fascists." All capped  off by the disclaimer at the bottom of the screen: Paid For By The U.S. Government.

Hey, wait a gosh-darned minute. We are the U.S. Government. Our tax dollars at work and all that. Had this been an actual campaign ad, it would have been captioned differently: Paid for by the front for tiny-handed former game show hosts. Or maybe: This message made possible from a grant from the Epstein Foundation for human trafficking. 

Or perhaps you'd like to spend a few moments reading the Hatch Act, a 1939 federal law which bars government employees from participating in partisan political activities while on the job. I'm not sure if there is additional legislation that bars government employees from sleeping through meetings, but I would expect he would be found guilty of that on several occasions. 

The bottom line for me, however, is that first and foremost, the Orange Worst is not running for any office currently, nor would he be allowed to pay for that sort of advertisement with taxpayer funds. What's even more egregious is that he could write a check for those TV spots out of his insider trading slush fund he has amassed in the first two years of this term. But why do that when the people's money is sitting right there on the collection plate? 

So now we have yet another instance of members of his own party tsking the adjudicated rapist with "harsh words" for his conduct. Illegal conduct. And that bar that he continues to slide under and repeatedly clang his soft skull against seems to have little or no effect. We are all shocked and dismayed by his behavior. His illegal behavior. Senators from his own party acknowledge that he is committing crimes and the best we can hope for is a strongly worded letter and another round of hand wringing. 

Arrest him. Impeach him. Remove him. Let him walk the dimly lit hallways of Mar-A-Lago until the authorities come for him. 

I would gladly watch that. 

Know Your Rights

 What if we started calling it The Bill Of Privileges? 

You have the privilege of Free Speech.

You have the privilege to keep and bear arms. 

You have the privilege to deny the quartering of soldiers in private homes without your consent.

You have the privilege to avoid unreasonable searches and seizures and requires warrants to be based on probable cause.

You have the privilege of due process, protection against self-incrimination and double jeopardy, and requirement of grand juries for capital crimes.

You have the privilege of a speedy and public trial by an impartial jury, along with the right to legal counsel and confronting witnesses.

You have the privilege of a jury trial in certain civil law cases.

You have the privilege of avoiding excessive bail, excessive fines, and cruel and unusual punishments.

You have the privilege of other unlisted privileges not explicitly written in the Constitution.

You have the privilege of knowing that powers not delegated to the federal government are reserved to the states or to the people.

Kind of changes the whole tenor of the discussion, doesn't it? Well let me tell you something: I've seen the actual thing, this Bill of Rights, behind its protective glass case in the National Archives. Written by James Madison and eventually approved by the First Congress of the United States. Back when Congress used to vote on things and pass laws. 

These chuckleheads who want to drive around the parts of the law of the land that doesn't suit them need to go. Election Day is a month away. Vote. It is your privilege. And your right. 

Lessons Learned

 My mother kept a Tootsie Roll bank in her dresser. She put quarters into it whenever she found a few laying around. This was her stake. On the relatively few occasions that she found herself in Las Vegas, this was the money she used. Exclusively on slot machines. She expected to lose her little nest egg twenty-five cents at a time. 

I understood that every game of "chance" that the kid down the street from me ran would end up in his favor. I learned not to bet on anything ever with my older brother as well. If there was a wager being made with either one of these two, I figured that the best choice was to keep my money in my pocket. 

Even if it was just a quarter. 

Much later in my youth, I was part of a crew that was sent to Las Vegas to install office furniture at Nellis Air Force Base. The fellows I travelled with decided to try and get to Sin City a day early so we could have some time to do the things that one does in Sin City. I wasn't interested in the casinos, given my predilection toward keeping my money in my pocket, but I did stroll down the strip to take in the sights. One of the sights I took in was, at high noon, every single light was on. No need to conserve here. No need for sales tax either. 

It was all paid for. And then some. 

Which is why I am currently kicking myself, metaphorically, for spending thirty dollars on an NFL "Survivor Pool" being run by a friend. I have participated in a number of seasons of Fantasy Football, but never for money. It was always for that odd sense of vicarious community that it invites. All of the vagaries of the current professional football season left me bewildered not only in our friendly no-money league, but abruptly out of thirty dollars when I chose the Green Bay Packers to beat the Atlanta Falcons this week. 

It seemed like a sure thing. 

It wasn't. 

I forgot the lessons I learned all those years ago. Chief among them, never bet on anything that is not in your personal control. Not suiting up for Green Bay myself left me out of control. Which brings me to the other reminder from my mother's Tootsie Roll bank: Don't bet money you don't have. All of those ads that surround any and all sporting events on television inviting you to put up that pittance that you might have left over after buying a tankful of gas on the outcome of a game being played by a bunch of strangers, many of whom are millionaires already, and all of whom are prohibited by their employer from betting on sports. Which is essentially the case for NBA players. And then there's the strange tale of Pete Rose and Major League Baseball. 

I'll bet he never gets into the Hall of Fame. 

Progress

 Here's an interesting thing: My wife and I own a Fiat. It has been a godsend lo these past few months. It is an electric vehicle. It is tiny. We are able to make our way in and around our various destinations in and around our municipality by the grace of our solar panels and the used battery within our Fiat. 

The old joke that I remember from my youth: What does Fiat stand for? "Fix it again, Tony." The happy news here is that after a year and a half the only maintenance we have needed on our little marshmallow of a car was self-imposed. Trying to upgrade the stereo, my son and I both forgot to check to see if the power was securely seated in the back of the unit, causing it to lose connection whenever we drove over a speed bump or other obstacle. Once we fixed that, we were free to scoot on past all those gas stations whose prices have done nothing but climb since the convicted felon decided to start a war to get us all to forget that he was a convicted felon and pen pals with the world's most notorious human trafficker. 

Now comes the fun part: Do you know what you call an official order, a decree, or command made by someone in authority without needing discussion or agreement? No? 

The method that the former game show uses to run our country is by fiat. This term originates from Latin, meaning, "Let if be done." This term found its way into English somewhere around 1630, back when fiats were more a part of everyday governance. 

As for our car, it's origins are an acronym: Fabbrica Italiana Automobili Torino, or in boring old English, Italian Automobile Factory Turin. 

But as it turns out, the Orange Worst's fiats are exactly who spurred us on to buying our own Fiat. Every day that the prince of gasoline zips on past six dollars a gallon, my wife and I were happy to have had the shove, arbitrary or not, to go out and commit to a new lifestyle. We continue to be grateful in the most convoluted way for the madness of the mandarin molester. 

However, I do look forward to a future where we can make choices with a little less fear involved. 

With Great Power...

 "Are you the principal?"

"No," I answer, "I'm just the guy who worked here long enough to get a master key."

I have worked for the same school district at the same school site for my entire career. As I begin to wind things down, it occurs to me that I have scratched and clawed since the late twentieth century to stay exactly where I am. 

"Are you still the computer teacher?"

"Yes, I'm still the computer teacher."

This one gets lobbed at me by former students, some of whom are returning as parents of new students. Somewhere in there I managed a four year stretch of teaching my own fourth grade class, but mostly I have been ensconced in that corner right next to the south stairwell, next to the library. 

Waiting for my big break.

Over the course of a couple years it felt like I might want to take my act on the road. I could teach math in middle school. At least there they might get more of my "jokes." I studied for months to take my single subject exam, but eventually my confidence wore down because, as it turns out, my expertise in mathematics stops somewhere just shy of the requirements for middle school. 

It was, as I suggested once to my son who was in the fourth grade at the time, "Better get your help now. After this year it's all on you."

Nevertheless, there are those days when our principal is away from campus and circumstances lead the folks in the office to call for the one person who carries some mild authority, or at least a master key. 

That would be me. 

I am not the principal, nor do I play one on TV. Somehow I have managed over the course of three decades to evade anything that would have pushed me into an actual administrative role. I know where everything should be, and I can open just about any door in the place. Sometimes I will take on the complaints of an angry parent, when I happen to know that my principal is busy elsewhere taking on the complaints of another angry parent. Or maybe they want to talk to an "old-timer," since I can remember how things used to be.

Not very different, as it turns out.