July 25, 2002
The Pledge: Why Do You Think I Care?
I don’t believe in the Average American. We’re just a really big group of individual people, and
since I have no grand knowledge of everybody else’s thoughts, I must assume, for practical pur-
poses, that I am the Average American. When the news gatherers out there pick up a story, it
is because they think I, a newsreader, will be interested. I am the amorphous Public they are
writing for.
A few weeks ago, there was a deluge of press coverage on a court ruling that the phrase “under
God” in the Pledge of Allegiance is unconstitutional. They must have thought I was interested. I
wasn’t, and since there continues to be such a tedious lot of coverage on the topic, I feel the need
to point out why I continue to be uninterested:
It happened in California. California is hard to take seriously; it’s good for the occasional
humorous anecdote, but I have a hard time caring what goes on there.
It happened in the 9th Circus Court. Does anybody outside the media take them seriously?
It’s a public school issue. Government-sponsored education is an all-around bad idea, and the
details of it have long since ceased to interest me. What are two words more or less when the
whole system is rotten?
Most importantly, it’s about the Pledge of Allegiance. Ever since my first glimmerings of
independent thought in about second grade, I’ve thought the Pledge was a rather silly bit of
pageantry. I never understood the point of pledging my allegiance to an inanimate object; that
scrap of nylon has no use whatsoever for my allegiance. And the republic for which it stands?
Well, we’re not deemed competent to drive or have sex until around sixteen, or to buy cigarettes
and vote until eighteen, so I really don’t see why mere schoolchildren are deemed competent to
swear allegiance to a republic. The presence or absence of “under God” in all this is irrelevant.
Sue South America!
Americans are fat. And it’s the South Americans’ fault. Even I weigh about five pounds more than
I’d like to weigh, and I blame it on two things: chocolate and potatoes. I’m sure I’d be at least five
pounds lighter if my good dieting intentions didn’t keep getting waylaid by French fries, potato
chips, M&Ms, chocolate chip cookies, Toblerones, and those delightful ice cream sandwiches with
the chocolate cookie outsides. I never had a chance.
And where did chocolate and potatoes come from? South America! The Aymara people of Bolivia
and Peru domesticated the potato, and the Mayas and Aztecs are responsible for chocolate. I’ve
thought about marching on Lima or Mexico City, but with all the exercise I might lose the five
pounds and have nothing to complain about. I’ve considered suing the modern-day descendants of
the Aymara, Maya, and Aztec people who blighted the world with chocolate and potatoes, but they
seem to be pretty poverty-stricken. They just wouldn’t be worth much cash, so I think there is only
one way to get meaningful compensation for the anguish of not being able to squeeze into size four
jeans: I must sue all of South and Central America.
So the original cultivators of chocolate and potatoes have been dead a couple thousand years. So
maybe not all the people south of Texas are responsible for my jiggly belly. But I’m almost
certain that somehow, directly or indirectly, they’ve all been profiting from my unhealthy eating
habits, and that’s just plain wrong. I think, emotionally and psychologically, I need the closure that
a few billion dollars would give me. I mean, money will never make up for the years of lousy self-
image, but it would allow me to start the healing process by finally publicly acknowledging
that
those few extra pounds are not my fault.
Who Pays the Police?
How do you feel about policemen? I’m not talking about intellectual justifications or anything-no,
what is your gut feeling when you walk by a policeman or drive past a squad car? At best, they
make me nervous. But why? I’m not black or Hispanic, I don’t have any face piercings, my
hair is not an unnatural color, and I don’t have any property worth confiscating. I’m also a decent,
law-abiding citizen with nothing to hide, so by all rights policemen should make me feel safe. They
don’t. And I don’t think I’m the only nice, law-abiding person who feels that way about them, either.
Maybe in the back of my mind, a badge reminds me of all the police brutality cases where charges
seem to slide right off that Teflon uniform. Maybe I can’t help wondering why the United States
has the world’s highest incarceration rate (1 in 136 people as of the year 2000). Or maybe I’m wary
of them because I know that law enforcement attracts alpha-male types: a lot of them get a buzz
from wielding power over others.
Honestly, though, I think I’m just confused about who the police work for. School taught me that
the police are public servants, that they are there to keep us (the nice people) safe from robbers
and murderers (the mean people), and in return we pay them via taxes; the police are our
employees.
But in practice, that doesn’t work. If the police were truly public servants, working only for the
public good, then they would get their funding solely from the public pocket (i.e. taxes). But the
police also get money from fines and forfeitures-where they get to confiscate and auction off
property bought with illegal funds or used for illegal purposes, without necessarily convicting the
owner/s of anything.
The justification for this alternative funding is that criminals are the reason we need police to begin
with, so the criminals should be the ones to pay. But is that sound? The police are ultimately
supposed to reduce crime, but we now have a system wherein the police profit from crime. That’s
like Amnesty International owning stock in Bangkok brothels: a Conflict of Interests.
Fines and forfeitures have made police departments into semi-autonomous privateering institutions,
and this makes them less answerable to the public they supposedly serve. I think their financial
interests are getting the upper hand--otherwise, there is no explaining all the parking tickets I’ve
gotten for leaving my car in places that hurt nobody, damaged no property, and obstructed nothing.
It didn’t benefit the public to ticket me, but it clearly benefited the police.
Even if you still cling to the belief that law enforcement is on your side, working to keep the streets
safe for you, the law-abiding citizen, don’t you take your foot off the gas pedal when you spot a
patrol car? Why? Are you really dangerous enough to public safety to warrant fear in the
presence of law enforcement?
Bugs
I hate to think I’m one of those people who are squeamish about any critter smaller than a squirrel.
My internal narrator tells me I’m better than that-raised in the insects’ paradise that is Florida, never
trained to be afraid of creepy-crawlies. But every evening for a week now, I’ve recoiled turning back
the bedcovers; to my newly paranoid eyes, the ink spots on my sheets-just for a second-look like
bugs. Downside of writing in bed, I guess. They didn’t bother me last week, but then Saturday I
found an earwig in my sheets, and I’ve had no peace since.
Maybe I’ve grown unused to bugs. I moved here in November and didn’t see a single bug until at
least April. I began to think there weren’t any. Then the ladybugs appeared and I was thrilled to see
them. Some ants surfaced and I didn’t mind.
But then I embarked on a killing spree: I killed the earwig. It freaked me out. Tuesday I killed a
millipede in the shower, and since then I’ve dispatched a couple of spiders. Maybe it’s lack of
information. Millipedes and earwigs bother me because I don’t know much about them: are they
venomous bloodsuckers or harmless as mayflies? I don’t know. Or maybe they were just in the
wrong places; I don’t think I’d like to wake up with mayflies, either. But something must have
snapped, because I usually don’t mind spiders.
I keep telling myself that I am not squeamish, and I am not afraid of things with
exoskeletons, but I just can’t stop checking behind the shampoo for millipedes.
I am the sole weirdo responsible for Thumbsmudge, and yes, that’s what I intend to call it from here on out.
If you think Thumbsmudge is a stupid name, you can tell me so at Elleason@aol.com
(mailto:Elleason@aol.com), but I probably won’t listen to you. If you stumble across another
publication so named, though, please let me know.
……………….Lilith
Americans are fat. And it’s the South Americans’ fault. Even I weigh about five pounds more than
I’d like to weigh, and I blame it on two things: chocolate and potatoes. I’m sure I’d be at least five
pounds lighter if my good dieting intentions didn’t keep getting waylaid by French fries, potato
chips, M&Ms, chocolate chip cookies, Toblerones, and those delightful ice cream sandwiches with
the chocolate cookie outsides. I never had a chance.
And where did chocolate and potatoes come from? South America! The Aymara people of Bolivia
and Peru domesticated the potato, and the Mayas and Aztecs are responsible for chocolate. I’ve
thought about marching on Lima or Mexico City, but with all the exercise I might lose the five
pounds and have nothing to complain about. I’ve considered suing the modern-day descendants of
the Aymara, Maya, and Aztec people who blighted the world with chocolate and potatoes, but they
seem to be pretty poverty-stricken. They just wouldn’t be worth much cash, so I think there is only
one way to get meaningful compensation for the anguish of not being able to squeeze into size four
jeans: I must sue all of South and Central America.
So the original cultivators of chocolate and potatoes have been dead a couple thousand years. So
maybe not all the people south of Texas are responsible for my jiggly belly. But I’m almost
certain that somehow, directly or indirectly, they’ve all been profiting from my unhealthy eating
habits, and that’s just plain wrong. I think, emotionally and psychologically, I need the closure that
a few billion dollars would give me. I mean, money will never make up for the years of lousy self-
image, but it would allow me to start the healing process by finally publicly acknowledging that
those few extra pounds are not my fault.
Who Pays the Police?
How do you feel about policemen? I’m not talking about intellectual justifications or anything-no,
what is your gut feeling when you walk by a policeman or drive past a squad car? At best, they
make me nervous. But why? I’m not black or Hispanic, I don’t have any face piercings, my
hair is not an unnatural color, and I don’t have any property worth confiscating. I’m also a decent,
law-abiding citizen with nothing to hide, so by all rights policemen should make me feel safe. They
don’t. And I don’t think I’m the only nice, law-abiding person who feels that way about them, either.
Maybe in the back of my mind, a badge reminds me of all the police brutality cases where charges
seem to slide right off that Teflon uniform. Maybe I can’t help wondering why the United States
has the world’s highest incarceration rate (1 in 136 people as of the year 2000). Or maybe I’m wary
of them because I know that law enforcement attracts alpha-male types: a lot of them get a buzz
from wielding power over others.
Honestly, though, I think I’m just confused about who the police work for. School taught me that
the police are public servants, that they are there to keep us (the nice people) safe from robbers
and murderers (the mean people), and in return we pay them via taxes; the police are our
employees.
But in practice, that doesn’t work. If the police were truly public servants, working only for the
public good, then they would get their funding solely from the public pocket (i.e. taxes). But the
police also get money from fines and forfeitures-where they get to confiscate and auction off
property bought with illegal funds or used for illegal purposes, without necessarily convicting the
owner/s of anything.
The justification for this alternative funding is that criminals are the reason we need police to begin
with, so the criminals should be the ones to pay. But is that sound? The police are ultimately
supposed to reduce crime, but we now have a system wherein the police profit from crime. That’s
like Amnesty International owning stock in Bangkok brothels: a Conflict of Interests.
Fines and forfeitures have made police departments into semi-autonomous privateering institutions,
and this makes them less answerable to the public they supposedly serve. I think their financial
interests are getting the upper hand--otherwise, there is no explaining all the parking tickets I’ve
gotten for leaving my car in places that hurt nobody, damaged no property, and obstructed nothing.
It didn’t benefit the public to ticket me, but it clearly benefited the police.
Even if you still cling to the belief that law enforcement is on your side, working to keep the streets
safe for you, the law-abiding citizen, don’t you take your foot off the gas pedal when you spot a
patrol car? Why? Are you really dangerous enough to public safety to warrant fear in the
presence of law enforcement?
Bugs
I hate to think I’m one of those people who are squeamish about any critter smaller than a squirrel.
My internal narrator tells me I’m better than that-raised in the insects’ paradise that is Florida, never
trained to be afraid of creepy-crawlies. But every evening for a week now, I’ve recoiled turning back
the bedcovers; to my newly paranoid eyes, the ink spots on my sheets-just for a second-look like
bugs. Downside of writing in bed, I guess. They didn’t bother me last week, but then Saturday I
found an earwig in my sheets, and I’ve had no peace since.
Maybe I’ve grown unused to bugs. I moved here in November and didn’t see a single bug until at
least April. I began to think there weren’t any. Then the ladybugs appeared and I was thrilled to see
them. Some ants surfaced and I didn’t mind.
But then I embarked on a killing spree: I killed the earwig. It freaked me out. Tuesday I killed a
millipede in the shower, and since then I’ve dispatched a couple of spiders. Maybe it’s lack of
information. Millipedes and earwigs bother me because I don’t know much about them: are they
venomous bloodsuckers or harmless as mayflies? I don’t know. Or maybe they were just in the
wrong places; I don’t think I’d like to wake up with mayflies, either. But something must have
snapped, because I usually don’t mind spiders.
I keep telling myself that I am not squeamish, and I am not afraid of things with
exoskeletons, but I just can’t stop checking behind the shampoo for millipedes.
I am the sole weirdo responsible for Thumbsmudge, and yes, that’s what I intend to call it from here on out.
If you think Thumbsmudge is a stupid name, you can tell me so at Elleason@aol.com
(mailto:Elleason@aol.com), but I probably won’t listen to you. If you stumble across another
publication so named, though, please let me know.
……………….Lilith
I hate to think I’m one of those people who are squeamish about any critter smaller than a squirrel.
My internal narrator tells me I’m better than that-raised in the insects’ paradise that is Florida, never
trained to be afraid of creepy-crawlies. But every evening for a week now, I’ve recoiled turning back
the bedcovers; to my newly paranoid eyes, the ink spots on my sheets-just for a second-look like
bugs. Downside of writing in bed, I guess. They didn’t bother me last week, but then Saturday I
found an earwig in my sheets, and I’ve had no peace since.
Maybe I’ve grown unused to bugs. I moved here in November and didn’t see a single bug until at
least April. I began to think there weren’t any. Then the ladybugs appeared and I was thrilled to see
them. Some ants surfaced and I didn’t mind.
But then I embarked on a killing spree: I killed the earwig. It freaked me out. Tuesday I killed a
millipede in the shower, and since then I’ve dispatched a couple of spiders. Maybe it’s lack of
information. Millipedes and earwigs bother me because I don’t know much about them: are they
venomous bloodsuckers or harmless as mayflies? I don’t know. Or maybe they were just in the
wrong places; I don’t think I’d like to wake up with mayflies, either. But something must have
snapped, because I usually don’t mind spiders.
I keep telling myself that I am not squeamish, and I am not afraid of things with
exoskeletons, but I just can’t stop checking behind the shampoo for millipedes.
I am the sole weirdo responsible for Thumbsmudge, and yes, that’s what I intend to call it from here on out.
If you think Thumbsmudge is a stupid name, you can tell me so at Elleason@aol.com
(mailto:Elleason@aol.com), but I probably won’t listen to you. If you stumble across another
publication so named, though, please let me know.
……………….Lilith