Don't Tax You, Don't Tax Me...

           ...Tax the Man Behind the Tree.

                                                           Benjamin Franklin, 1789  

If we go way, way back, we find that our progenitors, the homo erectus from which we all sprung, were so-called "hunter/gatherers."

They followed herds of animals, killing one every now and then for its meat and its hide.  They did that for several hundred thousand years.  Starting about 400,000 years ago.  More or less.  The archeologists and the paleontologists and the various "ologists" continue to argue about just when they first appeared, but let's just agree it was a long time ago.

They would pitch their camp, using animal skins for their tents.  Sometimes they would gather with other hunter/gatherers and camp together for mutual safety.  Keeping that saber tooth tiger at bay, doncha' know.  And sometimes they would form a group to hunt and camp together.

It wasn't long before these camps grew to several dozen, even hundred, with the hunters doing the hunting, and their womenfolk doing the cooking and seiwing and other chores.  

And before long these encampments were so large they needed to elect a mayor.  Or chieftain.  Somebody to establish rules and regulations governing the actions of all these campers.  And then they hired a sheriff to keep the peace.  And other foks to help run things.  Pretty soon we had a town.  And then they needed to enact taxes to help pay for all the people they had running things.  And that's where I being today's diatribe...

Did you know that our first taxes were 3% of everything over $800 a year?  The Democrats who ran Abe Lincoln's Administration were responsible for that.  It was to help pay for the Civil War.

And then our first Progressive president, Woodrow Wilson, decided to help pass the Tax Revenue Act of 1913.  It taxed our citizens at ther rate of 1% of all income over $8,000 a year.  The die was cast.

And then Roosevelt decided to make that flat tax progressive, with more taxes being levied on those with greater income.  Providing a disincentive to work harder and a reason to cheat.  And that's where we now find our selves. 

Did you know that the top 1% of our income earners pay 38.8% of all income taxes?  And that the top 25% pay 75% of all income taxes?  And that the bottom 50% of our citizens pay only 3.3% of our income taxes?  And yet, the Progressives among us continue to bleat about the "rich" paying their "fair share?"  Are they smoking some of those funny little cigarettes?

So you take a job.  And then get your first pay check.  You'll be smacked in the face with the realization you only receive about 75% of your actual pay.  The rest goes to income taxes, Social Security taxes, and all the other taxes your state chooses to levy.  It's been said that if we were forced to actually write a check on April 15th to the IRS for our taxes, there would be a mass revolt.  Torches and pitchfolks, to be sure!

And then you go buy a cup of overpriced coffee.  And pay 10% for the privelege of paying for it.  Or a new car.  Which now averages $51,140.  That tax means the state gets $5,000 for allowng you to buy that car.  

Or you buy a fishing license.  There's a tax on that.  Or a hunting license.  You can't be a hunter/gatherer today without paying the state for the privelege.  Think about that!  

Or you can live in California and pay the highest personalf income tax of 13.3% of your pay over a certain amount.  In addition to the Federal tax rate of 28.9%.  Add to that your property taxes, which for some is more than their mortgage payment, and you might wind up with a mere pittance of your total earnings.

And then you die.  If you croak in CA or NY or IL or other states that want to pick your bones on the way out, your heirs may have to pay as much as 50% of your estate to The Man.  Or, like CA, you might have to pay 5% of your total Net Worth if you're worth a $Billion or more.  That little craziness is on the ballot this November.  That's why the majority of our 200 $Billionaires are all moving to Texas, or Florida, or Tennessee, or any of the other 27 states that charge no income taxes.  They now pay 51% of all of California's income taxes.  Who do you think they'll be coming after once they go?

Take a look at Las Vegas.  It used to be that you could go there and buy a shrimp cocktail for $0.99.  And dinner for $4.95.  And a room for $15.00.  And then the corporations got involved, like MGM Grand and Ceazars Corp.  They bought up all the casinos on Las Vegas Blvd. and started trying to milk you for every last nickle.  They nick you for $50.00 to park your car.  And $25.00 for a cocktail.  And $185.00 for dinner.  That's why nobody's going there anymore.  

California is Vegas writ large.  Remeber what Mark Twain once said:

 "Trying to tax your way to prosperity is like standing in a bucket and pulling yourself up by the handles."

P.S.  Will the last one out please turn off the lights?

Change...

Change for the sake of change, is not necessarily good.

Nor necessary.  

Let me give you an example.  The very last American car with hand crank windows was the 2025 Jeep Wrangler.  This year's Wrangler comes standard with power windows.  As well as every other American car and truck.  

Why?  For purposes of standardization.  To stock both hand crank and power window lift assemblies is costly to the manufacturers.  They don't know how many of each to order or stock, thus increased costs.  So the manufacturers order only power window assemblies from their suppliers.  And then fold the cost of power windows into their new car price tags.  Like they're doing you a favor.  And you keep on buying them.

Is that a good thing?  Depends upon whom you ask.  For me it is.  I can remember having to stretch waaay over the seat to reach the far right window so as to crank it down.  For those lazy summer drives with the wind in your hair.  

But those power asemblies often go bad.  And that's a $600 dollar repair charge.  At least.  And they add extra weight.  As do every other motorized button you push that does something for you you could easily do for yourself.

And they add an extra cost you might not want to spend.  My first new car was a 1962 Chevrolet Impala Super Sport 409 cube, 409 horse.  4-speed, posi-trac, bucket seats.  Honduras maroon with black interior.  $2,824.00 out the door.  And it weighed only 2,890 pounds.  Of course, it had no air bags or anti-lock brakes or any other modern safety gear.  And they all add weight.

As in, the average new 4-door sedan weighs at least 4,200 pounds.  That's 1,400 pounds more than my '62  Impala.  Is that good?  You have to buy extra $6.00 a gallon (California) gas to cart all that extra weight around. 

And the average new car costs $51,190.  With $750.00 a month payments for 84 months.  That's not a good change.  Not for me, not for you.  

And when I was coming up we knew that next year's car would be bigger, faster, more powerful, prettier, and handle better.  With 18 colors to choose from.  Pink and lime green and a nice toasty brown.  Today?  Every car looks the same, next year's car won't be any better, it won't be faster or handle better, and it for sure won't be lighter or cost less.  In fact, it just might be worse.  Heavier and slower and guzzle more gas.  And 80% of all new cars are black, silver, or blue.  Have those changes been for the better?

I'd say no.

Another one?  Sure.

I remember when I was a kid, back when Christ was a corporal, there was one thing that held true to every family, no matter whether they were Black or White, rich or poor, or from the North or the South.  Come dinner (or supper) time, every member of the family had to have their ass in a chair around the dinner table or they didn't eat.  How's that for a sentence?

There was no Internet.  No cell phones.  No laptops.  No Facebook or Google or X or Instagram or TicTok.  And only 3 channels and they were all black and white.  No place to have your face except looking at your mom and dad. And sister Kate and brother Mike.  You spent that half hour catching up with your family.  About the happenings around your house.  And then  you went off to study or out for a date.  But you never, ever missed those few moments.  Have we progressed?  

I'd say no.  

We now live in our own little bubble, completely divorced from our family and friends.  Or even wife or husband.  I've said for years that the 'Net is the bane of our existence.  That it will bury us.  And we should sh*tcan it.  Today.  We should go back to the days when family and friends came first.  When we went out to meet girls instead of hoping our dating sites would bring us a girl- or boyfriend.  Face it.  We've devolved.

Just because you can order a thing from Amazon and have it delivered before sunrise tomorrow doesn't mean you should.  And just because Elon can cause a rocket booster to bring itself back to Earth in one piece doesn't mean we should care.  Good for him, not necessarily for us.  

There is almost exactly twice the number of souls in Armerica now as of the day I was born.  And we're paying a price for that crowding.  We are less friendly.  And helpful.  And caring.  And more self-centered.

I fondly recall the nights will my girl in a Pizza Hut consuming a large, 3-topping pie, a carafe of White Zinfandel, and walking out with change from a $20.00.  After leaving a good sized tip. And then heading for the drive-in movie just as the sun goes down.  I remember seeing Dirty Dancing and The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly as a double feature.  Windows all cranked down, eating popcorn and drinking Cokes.  With the breeze blowing through our car.  I pine for the good ol' days.  They'll never come back, and that's a shame.  And those who never experienced them don't know what they're missing.

So I say get back to having dinner at 6:00 with your family.  Then turning off the TV and shutting off your cell phones and playing Monopoly with your clan.  You just might enjoy it...

 

The Worst Investment You Can Make.

If you read the Chuckmeister's bleatings, you know I'm not in favor of today's higher education process.  Not what it teaches, how it teaches it, and how much it costs.

The big name universities and colleges that cost at least an arm to attend.  Upwards of $30,000 a year for tuition at state schools, and up to $90,000 a year at the Ivy League institutions.  There are 23 University of California universities, which report that you can expect to spend $150,000 for your 4-year education.  Tuition, fees, housing, food and books.  Not including a car to get there, or the gas to put in it.

For what?  They have professors that all to often profess anti-American vitriol that just might brainwash your little sons and daughters.  You send them off to learn, and they come home as socialists.  Or worse.  That, in my opinion, is a bad investment.

And as a college graduate, I'm quite familiar with what you must do to get that all important sheepskin.  To wind up finally able to hold it up to prospective employers, secure in the fact that it will grant you an extra few $Tens of Thousands a year in salary.  And a quick rise to the executive suite.

You expect wrong.

I'm here to finally provide you with some evidence that I was right all along.  The Secretary of Education's office just dropped a stastistic that should chill those of you who are paying through the proboscis for your kids' education.  My research just came up with the answer to all-important question:  How many new college graduates land a job in their major field of study, as of 2025?  Ya' ready?

                            31%

That's the good news.  It was only 20% in 2024.

And worst yet, more than 51% are working in a field for which a college degree is not necessary!

That should scare the crap out of whomever is paying for their student loans!  They have to work to pay their rent, and the job they trained for either no longer exists, or its already occupied.  Only those who have majors in engineering, medicine, nursing, laboratory sciences, pharmacy and law can count on a job when they graduate.  Those with degrees in social sciences, communications, or other non-specific majors will, as I've wryly offered in the past, will be asking, "Would you like fries with that?"

The Harvard Business Review had a article a couple of years back that indicated fully one-third of the jobs today's college attendees are attending college to attain, will no longer exist by the time they get their degree.  Artificial Intelligence is erasing many of the jobs we've long believed will always exist.  No longer.

If you wish your kid to get a degree, my suggestion is for them to go to a junior college for two years.  Get the requireds out of the way on the cheap.  By then they'll likely know what they want to do when they grow up, and then have them go to a college or university to attain it.  But by then they'll also find out whether it will still exist by the time they do.

That last part is uber important.  The Harvard Business Review recently reported that fully 40% of all the jobs in major fields of college study will not exist by they time one graduates.  Artificial Intelligence is eliminating entire career fields while we watch.  

I say go to college if you'll graduate with a license to practice a skill for which a degree is necessary.  Law, medicine, nursing, pharmacy, or engineering are classic examples.  A major in Medieval Lesbian Poetry is not.  Nor is psychology, finance, social sciences, computer programming, or so many other yesterday's news major fields.

Think about it.  UPS starts their truck drivers at $176,000 a year.  A degree in social sciences starts at $56,000 a year.  A full-time job in a California McDonald's pays $48,000 a year. You make the choice.  

And then prepare to live with it... 

Poor Puree (Part Deux)

My spleen is so large it needs venting several times a day.  And requires me to write about those ventings at least once a week.  So here goes...

I come from an era where very little pissed me off.  And that which did, I did something about.  Today?  There's so many things that piss me off, there's simply no way to resolve it all.  But my A.I. therapist tells me to cough up that hairball and let everyone know how I'm feeling.  I've therefore picked three more you might enjoy reading about.

1.  Mail-In Election Ballots:

I awoke to a raging blizzard that early November morning.  I was 9 and my Dad had told me to get dressed as he was going to drive me to school.  He wanted to show me something special on the way.  I would have normally mounted my new Schwinn Black Phantom* for the 10 block ride.  But that day I'd be riding with Dad. 

I jumped into the car quickly to get out of the snowstorm.  Dad then drove me the few blocks it took to reach our nearest poling place.  We saw the line around the block of people waiting to vote.  In a blizzard.  All wearing winter coats and hats, with scarves wrappped tightly around their faces.  Dad said the only thing we owe our Government is to vote.  To show up and stand up and express our preference via a vote.  Just like the several dozen waiting in line that day.  

That memory sticks with me like glue.  

Dad had scarlet fever as a kid, so his heart was too weak to enlist in the Big War.  In spite of his illness he volunteered at the Sunflower Ordinance Plant in Kansas to build the 500 pound bombs our boys dropped on Germany.  He was that patriotic.  And I got my patriotism from him.  Voting where I came from wasn't for a week.  Or a month.  Or, like California, for a season.  Voting was a day.  And that's how it should always remain.  

Just like Florida, which has 23 million residents yet counts votes in one day.  California mails ballots to everybody, plus a few extra million just in case.  And then counts votes until they have all they need to win.**  Maybe someday someone will turn California back around to the place it used to be when I got here.  But until then, it reeks of socialism.  And its residents seem to be so accustomed to being mistreated by those it hires and pays to serve them, they keep on voting them back in.  It's like an advanced case of "Stockholm Syndrome."  You're taken hostage and kept until you fall in love with your captors.  And then forget what it was like when you had freedom.  

I arrived here exactly 50 years ago.  Back when it was a center-Right State.  Remember, we had two terms of Ronnie Reagan, two terms of Pete Wilson, two terms of Deukmajian, and two terms of Ahhnold Swartzenhoozits.  And then 16 straight years of all Democrats, all the time.  16 years of Democrat governors.  16 years of Democrats in statewide offices.  And 16 years of the Legislature being 2/3rds supermajority Democrat, so they could pass anything they wanted.  And they have.  Some of the dummest damm laws one could imagine.  Look around you.  This is what you get if you vote Democrat in November...

2.  Sanctuaries:

There's a "Supremacy Clause" in our Constitution. That means the Federal Gubmint takes charge should state laws and Federal laws bump into one another.  Such as regards immigration, to include who gets in, and who goes out. 

Even so, there's 256 counties, cities, townships, and villages in our Great Country which have declared themselves "sanctuaries" from Federal immigration laws.  Think about that.  They've decided to pick and choose which Federal laws they wish to obey, and which they do not.  And they can't do that.

Sort of like a Chinese restaurant.  One from column "A," and two from column "B."  And surprisingly, the Feds haven't made them pay a price for their intransigence.  Yet.  Although the Feds are now considering pulling all immigration and enforcement personnel from airports in sanctuary cities.  Such as New York City, Chicago, San Francisco and Lost Angeles.  Just in time for the Olympics.  

This action would keep international passengers from disembarking in those cities.  Depriving those cities of hundreds of millions of $Dollars they receive from those services.  I'm hoping they will. Maybe they can be coerced into following the law.  By holding a symbolic gun to their socialist heads.  I doubt it, but maybe.

Just imagine if we, the public, were to treat those cities' laws the same way.  You get stopped for speeding and you tell the cop you've declared a "sanctuary" from their driving laws.  Or refuse to pay their property taxes until they start acceding to Federal law.  The reason tens of millions of illegal aliens have set up housekeeping in sanctuary cities is because of their posture on following Federal law.  

Maybe it's time we make them pay.  I think we should.

3.  HOA's:

I'm betting you'll be surprised when I tell you how many of your neighbors and mine are living under the cruel and regimented thumb of an HOA.  That stands for "Home Owners Association," doncha' know.  And the answer is...

                              35% 

Yes friends, one-third of us live in concentration camps with neatly manicured lawns.  With homes all painted the same shade of tan, and mailboxes all pointing the same direction.  And back yards free from swing sets and bird feeders.  And God help you if your property is different in any way from the HOA rules and regs.  If so, they'll fine you into the Stone Age.  Or, only $100 at a time, now that the courts have gotten involved.  It used to be $1,000's at a time until the courts' recent ruling.  

Truth is, HOA's boards of directors are made up mainly of those who never had any authority of any kind in their entire lives.  They were the postal carriers, and the secretaries, and the cashiers from Wal-Mart.  They always had a boss telling them what to do.  And they didn't like it.    

And then they retired and moved into an HOA-managed development.  Then ran for the board of their HOA, got a clipboard and a pencil and a ruler, and started looking for violations at YOUR home.  They're filled with venom and fueled with righteousness.  They're finally able to talk back to somebody for the first time in their lives.  To order folks around.  And they're going to take it out on you.  In spades.

Please, Fellow Patriots, do yourself a favor and make sure there's no HOA running things in the home you're thinking about buying.  I didn't, and wound up being pursued by a retired professional quilter (!) all around my kitchen for trying to install solar panels on my roof.  She yelled at me for fully 30 minutes after having been awakened by a hammer falling at 7:05 a.m., 5 full minutes after their legal starting time.  

She then called the sheriff and highway patrol.  And the city's permitting office to see if the job had been officially approved.  Before long there were 2 Samoan solar panel installers, 4 HOA board members, their poor, mistreated husbands, and a sheriff's deputy and a policeman in my back yard.  Trying to figure out if the installers could start installing. The HOA's rules said they could.  The quilter broke down and admitted herself for psychiatric treatment. 

I've owned 12 homes in 4 states and never before had an HOA trying to ruin my life.  The good news is there's not too much of it left, so this problem will naturally go away before long.  Make sure it doesn't happen to you.

So these things piss me off.  Maybe you too.  And I intend to keep writing about them until they stop.  It's cathartic.  It makes my spleen feel better.  Maybe yours too.  Or maybe you're piss off-free and just need to read how others are suffering.  If so, keep reading.  It's good for us both...

*   That bike cost me $120 of my newpaper route money.  And it was so special then its worth more than $3,500 today.  Wish I had it back.

**  I attended Rep. Dana Rohrbacher's relection party at Skosh Monahan's one night awhile back.  Back when Orange County, CA was turning from bright red to purple.  He was so far ahead on Election eve that we all toasted his return to Congress.  Where he'd  been for 30 years.  Excepppppt, two weeks later a ballot harvester pulled up in front of the Secretary of the Election's office to drop off 250,000 ballots.  Which put Dana's opponent into the lead.  Like what just happened to Pratt in Lost Angeles.  They just keep on counting until they get it right.  Remember the Golden Rule:  He who has the gold, rules...

Poor Puree.

There's a few things in this life that really piss me off.

Maybe you have a few as well.

I thought to myself, self!  Why not share those things with my Fellow Patriots, a few at a time, over the coming 15 years.  Or sooner should God choose to take me sooner.  So I hereby vent my enormous spleen and share a few of mine, today, right here in River City.

1.  Undertrained Police Officers.

     It started, I think, back in 2020 - 21.  Back when the nervous lily-livered snowflake Progressives decided to "Defund the Police."  You remember that, right?  Almost immediately the good cops, those who weren't near retirement and those who were early in their careers, bolted for towns that weren't into defunding them.  Leaving behind only those steeped in their own anger.  Mad as Hell they had to work for people that hated them.  So they stuck around to continue predating the poor, unsuspecting public.  Like lions on the Serengheti, swooping down on the poor motorists, blue lights ablazing.

That led to a severe shortage of cops, particularly in the Big Blue Cities.  Leaving cities 25% or more understaffed.  So they started hiring anyone who could fog a mirror, and rushed them through training to get them on the streets.  The streets where you and I were traveling.  

Did you know it takes a beautician two full years of both classroom and on-site training to become licensed?

Did you know it takes a German cop 2 full years of training before they're released on the autobahns?

And did you know it takes as little as 22 weeks for a policeman/woman/other (California, doncha' know) to get his/her/its badge?  And gun, and taser, and baton, and mace, and handcuffs?  So he/she/it can presume to make sure we obey the 366,345 laws we poor Taxifornians have on our books?  66,000 more than the Federal Government and almost twice the number #2 New York has on its books?

I know from my psychology training that fully 3% of everybody out there is either a sociopath, a psychopath, a drunk, a drug addict, a felon, or those suffering from any of a few dozen disorders.  These are the folks you meet driving toward you on the Streets of America.  The ones sitting beside you on the next flight you take.  The ones behind you in line at Starbucks.  

And that goes for cops, too.  Maybe more than 3% of cops are mentally challenged.  Maybe the ones who couldn't get the job of their choice and are taking cop-hood as a second or third option and are angry every day.  Or those who were bullied on the playground as a kid and now want to get even by bullying us?  

All I know is we taxpayers have hired 880,000 policemen, sheriffs' deputies and constables in America, and paid them damn well, to extract from us as much money as possible on the thinnest of reasons.  Presumably those they report to feel we just don't pay enough taxes.  And they want more.

The average ticket price in Taxifornia is $790.00.  That's a week's pay for going 10 over the speed limit, or making an illegal turn, or rolling through a stop sign.  Seems to me there ought to be a lot more of that protecting and serving, and a lot less of that charging and collecting...

Perhaps the only way to avoid these road pirates is to avoid the Big Blue Cities.  I know I do...

2.  Parking:

America's a big place.  We need cars to take us from where we are to where we want to go.  And when we get there we have to find a place to park our steeds.  And therein, as Shakespeare once said, lay the rub.

If it's a town we're going to there's meter maid waiting around the corner to write us a parking ticket just as soon as that little red flag pops up.  And a tow company to drag our cars off to the impound lot.  

And if it's a stadium, where we have to pay at least a leg for a ticket to the Big Game, someone picks our pocket for $50.00 more to park our cars.  Can't they just charge more for the ticket and let us park our cars for free?  Or make it $20.00 for the beer instead of $14.00?  It seems there's always somebody trying to figure out how to get into our jeans for another $Dollar.  And I for one don't appreciate it.

3.  The Tipping Culture:

The concept of tipping your waiter or waitress started in 1780's Jolly Olde England.  The diner would toss a tuppence to his serving wench "To Insure Promptess."  

Flash Forward to Present Day.  Making ends meet in a restaurant has always been a fraught situation.  It used to be that the old "30-30-30" proposition held sway.  Thirty percent for rent and insurance and such.  Thirty percent for labor.  And thirty percent for food and related costs.  Leaving 10% for profit.  A fair return.

Now?   A recent Harvard Business Review article shows that more than half of new restaurants go tits up in the first year.  4 out of 5 go down by the fifth year.  And 19 out of 20 by Year Ten.  Why would anyone go into a business with almost guaranteed failure?   A chef who always wanted his own restaurant.  A manager who always wanted his own restaurant.  And a hedge fund star who always wanted his own restaurant.  That's who.  

And they all soon learn that earning even 1% or 2% of sales is tough as an old boot.  So, even though they hire, train and manage their wait staff, when they can't pay their bills they start looking for ways to cut costs.  And cutting their wait staff pay is among their first  options.

It's a Faustian bargain.

We have always been okay with paying the wait staff 10% to 15% for good service.  Or even 20% if we're feeling flush and they performed really well.  But now the restaurant owner has begun brainwashing his staff into believing that the diner should cover their rent and child care.  They've now started posting that a 25% tip, or even 30% or 40%, is expected.  And the waitress is the one who's expecting it.   Leaving us, the diners, to face down an angry waiter/tress if we don't feel like paying for the restaurant's employees.  Leading to arguments at tableside.  Or even worse.  Many of us have just stopped dining out.  And I don't blame them.  I have.  If we're expected to pay their employees, how about we bring our own waiter to the restaurant?  Or even wait our own tables and save the tip?

This is a serious problem that does nothing more than kick the restaurant's bankruptcy filing a few weeks or months down the road.  A sad state of affairs for what is an old and potentially lucrative career if the waiter is good.  If this continues unabated they just might wind up with nowhere to work...

4.  The Name Mohammed:

Did you know that the name "Mohammed," or its multiple spelling varients, is the most popular mens' name in the world?  Upwards of 150,000,000 people are named Mohammed.  In the Middle East, Northern Africa and Pakistan, up to 90% of men are named Mohammed.  

Can you imagine if a cop bursts through the door of a Lebanese hookah bar and yells, "On your feet, Mohammed, you're under arrest!"  Everybody in the place stands up and reaches for the sky.

Every Muslim has three names.  Mohammed is the given name, their middle name is optional, and the family named is Number Three.  We're told they call each other by their middle names.  So why Mohammed as Number One?  I'ts obvious an honorific.  But those who quit breathing for a few minutes and then come back to life, often report they met and talked with Jesus.  Has anyone ever come back to life and said they talked with Mohammed?  I think not!

I'm proposing we should pass a law here in 'Murica that no one can be called Mohammed anymore.  I'm suggesting we replace Mohammed with "Barry."  Or "Frank."  Or perhaps "Kevin."  Sounds better and they might even like it.  

That's quite enough spleen venting for one day.  I'll post a few more in the coming days and weeks.  I'm sure you cannot wait...

Forget College

Today is the 22,359th day in a row I haven't used Algebra.

That's my opening salvo in my never-ending war against bullsht,* almost worthless college degrees.  And I'm here to lay out my case for all to see.

When I (barely) graduated from high school (if my typing teacher wasn't a first cousin, I wouldn't have) I attended college to make my parents happy.  Not me, my parents.  They wanted me to have a college degree.  I didn't, they did.  

They knew instinctively that a degree makes a kid more employable.  And that means more money for the rest of your life.  Except I didn't need no stinkin' job.  I was a professional pool player by then, knocking down more dough than the mayor.  

And that there was a two-track system back then, as there is now.  When you graduated high school, you either joined the ranks of the lower class work force (ahem!) and become a plumber or carpenter or truck driver, or you became a white collar earner.  Staying clean, sitting behind a desk, talking on the phone, boring yourself to death.  Or at least that's what they claimed.  

It hasn't been true for several years, now that UPS truck drivers start at $176,000 a year.  Or roughly twice what an entry level white collar job pays.  And that lie still makes worried parents dip into their 401(k)s to the tune of $30,000 a year for tuition, or even more. 

Sometimes much, much more.

I didn't care.  Like I said, you could find me in a pool hall somewhere peeling some unsuspecting rube like a grape.  I had walked past a pool hall when I was 13 and decided to go in.  I won $3.60 that afternoon, when my after school job paid $0.60 an hour.  

I was totally enchanted with green felt and those cast phenolic resin pool balls banging together.  Nine ball was my favorite game, but 8-ball, call shot, bank pool, anything involving a cue and an opponent - and money - was a-okay with me.  I'd been winning major bucks across a hot pool table for several years by then, and I intended to continue doing so.  And if I had to pretend to attend classes to keep my folks happy, while spending my time on the road hustling, I'd do so.

I thought everybody wore a money belt and carried a gun.

This was pre-Viet Nam, BTW.  That war (police action) was just heating up, so going to college to maintain a 2-S deferment and avoid the draft had yet to become a thing.  Just mom and dad paying tuition and me at the pool hall.

Oh, I'd attend the classes that interested me.  I was attending a state school so a liberal arts focus in its  curriculum was what I faced.  Now, I believe there's literally no reason at all to learn about sub-sarahan Africa's environmental challenges.  Or learning all there is to know about Black Studies (how much is there to know?).  Or any left-wing social studies class they might dream up.  I actually heard of a gal earning a degree in Medieval Lesbian Poetry.  Me?  I majored in Psychology.  And Economics.  If I had to go, I wanted to learn why people do the things they do, and then how their decisions impacted their bank accounts.  

To make a long story short, I flunked out of 5, count 'em, FIVE colleges before the newly installed draft caught me.  It's not like I wasn't smart enough to pass, it's just that I didn't attend classes.  They sort of insisted on that.  I could only keep my 2-S deferment for 5 and 1/2 years.  I didn't know that, BTW.  When I reached that milestone without a degree, they nabbed me.  So I had no choice but to interrupt my pool career, and also my college career, such as it was, until I took care of that "other" matter.  That's a whole 'nother story, which I'll cover in depth one day. 

4 and a half years later I returned to college to finish up.  I only had 76 transferrable credits to my name, believe it or not, so I took 44 semester hours over a 12 month period and earned all "A's."  Even so, my accum for those 124 hours was a 2.78.  Yes, it was that bad.

I took my diploma, ink still drying, and visited a sales recruiter in Kansas City.  To try and score a job for which I was qualified before the degree.  Fortunately, a district manager from Pfizer was there interviewing.  He saw me in the hallway and asked if I was interested in a sales position.  I had a job before the sun set that day, for which a college degree was only necessary to prove I could stick to it enough to earn one.  Nobody ever asked my major, nobody cared.  And I never used a single thing I learned in college after that.

Not one single thing.  Including algebra.

Doubt me?  In my final semester I trained a white rat to stuff a marble in a beer can.  In a Skinner Box.  In a 500-series psychology course.  Selective reinforcement, they called it.  Yawn!  I named him Frank Lloyd Rat, BTW.  Since this was a private school, I paid serious money for that course.  Yet, I can tell you there's never been an instance where rat training has benefitted me in my professional career.  Nor has the requirement to train them popped up.   

Oh yeah, algebra.  If someone decides to make "a" equal something, and "b" equal something else, my mind goes out to lunch.  Especially if you ask me to find an answer when you put them into an equation.  Oh, I can deduce the answer in my head without the equations, as I've trained myself to do, but my algebra teacher wanted to see the way I found it.  Fortunately, Mr. leach gave his students 2 points on their tests for spelling their names right, so I eaked out a "D." Just enough to pass the class.

And there was this English teacher.  She had a Phi Beta Kappa key in three subjects, Math, Music and English. And she wore all three keys every single day.  When she walked they all clanged together.  Very disconcerting.  And she only had two dresses.  Both of them covered with gigantic flowers.  She would alternate them week to week.  And she never had them cleaned, either.  You didn't have to look to know it was her coming into the classroom.  Her voice was like rocks banging around in a tomato can.  There wasn't a day I sat in her class that I didn't contemplate suicide. 

And yet both of those classes were required to pass.  Once again a major reason to avoid college.  Those folks "profess" some knowlege.  And want you to pay them to profess it.  What if you simply don't want to learn it?

I go through all this in order to make you understand that a college degree that doesn't end with a license to practice something or other is almost totally worthless.  That's why so many kids with shiny new degrees today are asking, "Would you like fries with that?"  As they try and earn enough to pay back their student loans.  While electricians are earning $200,000 a year, almost from Day One.  Farriers, guys who shoe horses, are knocking down $250,000 a year.  And they're working outdoors in the fresh air. These folks have been succeeding for years while these kids have been cooling their heels in a classroom somewhere.  Trying to convince themselves that doing this same thing over and over, every year is other than insanity.

Want to be a doctor?  Great.  A nurse?  Sure.  A lawyer.  Totally okay.  An engineer?  Yessiree!  But a dufus with a degree in math or music or English, you're sh*t outa' luck.  Those kids will be competing with each other for entry-level jobs in 2026 America.  And if they'e lucky enough to snag one they'll probably be starting in the mailroom.

Oh yeah, before I go, let me advocate for a career in the military.  You can enlist, or hopefully get a slot at a military academy and become an officer, in any of the 6 branches of our military.  They're all good.  Some feed their kids better than others, like the Air Force, but pick 'em.  Spend 4 years in uniform, travel the world, grow the Hell up, have lots of fun, and be discharged honorably with a DD-214.  Proof that you served.  You'll be better received when you apply for a job than those with b.s. degrees.  And the best part: The military will then pay for you to go to college.  No student loans, evah!  They'll even send you off to become a doctor or lawyer or nurse, if you want.  It's the best little known bit of news you never knew.

But don't let your kids spend 3 or 4 years going into debt to get a degree that makes them broke and employers yawn.  Have them start in the trades, or go to the Army.  Or Navy.  Or Marines.  It'll grow your kids up virtually overnight and save your retirement money so you can blow it on yourselves.  What's not to like?

You're welcome. 

On Growing Up.

I grew up in a really small town in Northwest Missouri.  Back in a time when there was no Internet, or 24-hour news cycle, or other attraction to keep us occupied.

Almost Iowa, almost Nebraska and almost Kansas, it was.  And just under 10,000 in population.      

The town, Chillicothe, Missouri, which means "Fork in the river," according to the Ojibway Indians, tried hard for decades to grow above that 4 figure number.  But without success.  It was the Livingston County seat, however, so there was a degree of importance in living there.  Big gray 4-story courthouse in the middle of the town, with banks and jewelry and clothing and grocery stores surounding it.  The kind of place where the farmers come to town on Saturdays to do their business.  In freshly pressed bib overalls.  The ones with the two straps over the shoulders and a couple of pencils in the little pockets in front.  And oh yeah, the straw hat covering their eyes.

Chillicothe was the kind of town where there was literally nothing to do.  There was no water park, or skating rink, or racetrack, or other attraction to keep residents occupied and happy.  Because they weren't.  Occupied and happy, that is.  We had to develop our own kinds of fun.  And God knows, we did.

We hunted, and fished, and camped, and took long walks in the woods.  That was about it.  Except for cars, that is.  Our salvation.

Cars were our way of gaining freedom.  The town was about 5 miles from end to end, and we'd travel up and down its 4-lane highway, burning rubber at each stoplight, and flashing our lights at each other as we passed.  And God help you if you failied to flash.  There would be a whispering campaign against you, wondering why you hated someone or other.

And then we'd park in the Dairy Queen, back in to a parking space, and open our hoods to show off our chrome-laden engines.

And since it was before the 24-hour news cycle and the Internet, we knew nothing about what was happening in the rest of the world.  Or even the town over.  All we could do was read the tiny town newspaper and the magazines to try and stay up.  I recall one of my best friends, Wayne we'll call him, for that was his name, saying that he'd just read about bi-sexuals in the latest issue of Playboy.  He held the issue up in my face and said, "You know Cass, I just learned something.  if I get any sex at all I think I'm gonna' have to buy it."

I swear this is true.  Sorry, Wayne.

About half the town went hunting in the fall.  In fact,  my birthday and my Mom's birthday bracketed November 11th, the day deer season opens.  The school closes, 'cause nobody would come if they didn't.

We didn't know about much of anything, either.  We knew that if you looked 21 you could buy two quarts of Falstaff for a single dollar.  And it would get you nice for the evening.  And I looked 21.  Which made me among the most popular guys in town.  Nobody knew there were drugs you could buy and take.  Except for what we read in Playboy.  We read about undergroud clubs in the big cities, where Black guys played bongos and smoked something called "reefers."  We didn't know what that was, or enough to know we should be finding some for ourselves.  No cocaine, no heroin, no dope, no nothing.  Just beer and fast cars.

My life consisted of getting up late and shooting pool until all hours of the morning.  And then maybe playing a little pot limit poker and drinking beer.  And then heading out to the Old Highway for some drag racing action.

There were 10 National Hot Rod Association record holders in our little bitty town.  Best and fastest cars anywhere near there.  And I managed to win enough playing billiards to buy the newest and latest and fastest car around.  

One of my professors in one of my colleges asked me why I didn't apply myself.  I told him it was because I made twice as much as he did, walking backwards.  He flunked me, BTW.  

So when my draft notice came in the mail I figured my life was pretty much over.  And since I was in charge of my little fiefdom back home, I wasn't anxious to leave it.  I had the fastest car and the prettiest girlfriend and the coolest pool cue, so I was king of my domain.  And being shot by some little Asian guy hanging in a tree, waiting for me to get off the plane, didn't sound good at all.  And this was before anyone had started heading off to Canada to avoid the draft, so I was stuck.  The time had come.

I was whisked off to basic training and was dumped into a melting pot of thousands of other guys from every corner of America.  Black guys, Asian guys, American Indians, Hispanics, Pacific Islanders, Chinese, from big cities and little towns like mine.  We were blended together into a stew.  Watch "Full Metal Jacket" to get a feeling what it was like.  

We were yelled at and marched and ordered around for 8 weeks, and then sent off to our duty stations.  Most went straight to Viet Nam to become cannon fodder.  Some, like me, were lucky enough to wind up with orders to Europe, or maybe Alaska, or maybe Hawaii  Me?  First to Fort Belvoir, Virginia for training to become a spook.  Yep, Army Intelligence had chosen me.

Seems like I did well on my entrance exams.  Well enough that they didn't want me to get blown up in the Nam.  They tapped me for Military Intelligence.  I know, I know.  It's an old joke.  But they actually knew what they were doing as regards intelligence.  The worst part was being stationed near Washington, D.C. at Fort Belvoir.  There were no dates among the local girls unless you pretended you were a liberal.  It was filled with lefties even back then.  And then I headed off to Germany to begin my tour of duty.

I go through all of this because you'll recall I told you I came from a small town.  With small town people.  Who knew not so much about anything.  And all at once I'm mixing it up with guys from all over America and from all socioecomic strata.  Rich, poor, Black, White, and all shades in between.  Smart, dumb, and all I.Q. points in between.  My best friend back in the Army back then was a Black guy from Detroit named Walter.  He thought it was funny my name was Chuck, as that was the negative slang term Black guys used for White guys.  Everytime he said my name he'd laugh.  

Oh course, I had to respond with a slang term of my own for his race, with no malice intended.  We learned that the folks we didn't grow up with were every bit as intelligent and worthy as were we.  We learned that we aren't so special without a helping hand from those around us.  

We learned there are no Blacks and Whites and Reds and Yellows in fox holes.  There are only our Brother Soldiers.  Who just might be called upon to save our lives.  Just like there's no athiests in fox holes.  We all prayed regularly for help in getting past this portion of our lives.  The portion between racing up and down the freeway and drinking cheap Falstaff and shooting pool, and shooting it out with terrorists in God-forsaken corners of the world.  Between growing up in an all White town and then having to depend on a Black guy from Detroit.

I tell you all this because a boy in today's America is considered fully grown physically when he's between 16 and 18 years old.  Girls?  14 and 16  years old.  So your kid is considered an adult at the age of 18.  And we absolutely know that our young men are nowhere near grown at that age.  In fact, I can tell you from my own experience that I wa still a Big Kid at 25.  I'd been doing the same things over and over again for several years without my horizons expanding.  Trust me, enlisting in one of our military organizations will grow you up.  Macht Schnell!  They will beat your name out of you and replace it with your service number.  Take you apart and rebuild you to become a lean, mean, fighting machine.  You'll lose what remains of your baby fat and replace it with muscle.  And tendons and sinew.  You'll gain weight and strength and speed.  You'll be conditioned to operate at full strength for hours and hours.  You'll lose your small town self and gain a worldly outlook.  You'll gain mastery over your own body.  And mind.  And you'll grow up.  Fully.

Your job, Fellow Patriots, was to birth your kids and then keep them safe as they aged.  Until they become Tall Children.  That's what I call our 18 year-olds.  They're nothing but hand grenades just waiting to go off.  Do yourself and them a favor.  Take them to the Recruiting office and help them sign up.  You'll send them off as brash, untamed, unfocused kids and welcome them back as hard, straight, well manered and sophistocated young men and women.  They'll get to see the world, rub shouldeers with other men and women their age and capabilities, and then gain confidence.  Confidence borne of proven performance.   

I speak from personal experience.  I was a smart ass pool pro with a fast car who didn't need and didn't want what the Army wanted to give me.  But I learned pretty damn quick that it's not what you want, it's what your Country wants.  And you'll learn fast that's more important.

Fewer than 1% of our population gets to serve in our militaries.  It's an all-volunteer service now.  No more draft.  And the men and women who now serve are slightly older than before, much smarter, far better educated and more able to protect us, you and me.  Whatever you think about the military, 22 countries demand 2 or more years out of their young men and women.  To give something back to the country that raised them.  I served.  Your kids can as well.  It made me who I am.  I shudder to think what I would have become had I not been drafted.  And I thank God it forced me to become who I now am... 

P.S.  Oh yeah, the Gubmint will pay for your kids' education after they come back from serving.  You won't have to spend a load to get them a degree.  Let Uncle Sam do it.  Use your savings for an RV so you can drive all around our beautiful Country.  It makes sense to do so.  Dollars and cents.  Call me if you need further convincing...