Dear Madame Zoltar

Hello, my sopping  and snowed dears.  I have a 9:40 appointment in Kenosha.  Time to follow my own advice: slow down.  What I hate are guys with those huge 4 X 4's that ride your ass, their headlights aimed right at your rear view mirror.   I slow down and pull over to the right for them.  I'd rather that than another rear-end accident.

So far, our winter hasn't been too bad.  (Knock on wood.)  There's still plenty of time for subzero temps and bitter wind chills.  Stay tuned to the weatherman or woman.  The sky is falling and we're all going to die.  When we're all dead, who will the weathermen broadcast to?  Sea gulls and geese?

I think maybe we'll exist for another few decades.  After that, all bets are off.  Unless we change our ways, I don't see us as long term stewards of the planet. It's that damned fossil fuel dependency,  as deadly as any junky's habit.  It will suck us dry until all of our humanity is gone.  Wars have been fought for millennia over this area, and not always for oil.  To many, this is the Holy Land. Therefore the constant tumult and strife. Death.  Kill. Death, has been the predominant tone.  All religions preach peace, all are soaked in blood.  The sheep conveniently ignore that fact.  Their religions are like their favorite football teams: essentially the same, but with enough  minor differences that the bloodthirsty exploit for profit.

So the fighting goes on and on and on.  So much money to be made by not just weapons manufacturers, but the entire sea of support  and logistics.  From the soldier's boot to the airplane's engines, they all have to be paid for.  War is money.  This allows hundreds, if not thousands, of support products to be produced.  Better living through war.  Better war through death.

How depressing!  I can't leave you like that.  I love you guys too much for that.  Here's a Readers Digest joke:

"A therapist has a theory that couples who make love once a day are the happiest. So he tests it at a seminar by asking those assembled, 'How many people here make love once a day?' Half the people raise their hands, each of them grinning widely. 'Once a week?' A third of 
the audience members raise their hands, their grins a bit less vibrant. 'Once a month?' A few hands tepidly go up. Then he asks, 'OK, how about once a year?'

"One man in the back jumps up and down, jubilantly waving his hands. The therapist is shocked—this disproves his theory. 'If you make love only once a year,' he asks, 'why are you so happy?'

"The man yells, 'Today’s the day!'"

That's it, my dears.  I love you all and thank you for reading my blog this week,  Love, love, love, all you need is love.

Is today the day? Ask madamezoltar@jtirregulars.com

Be careful driving, stay warm, and be careful walking, too.  Better yet, stay in bed and ignore the day.