Your average smart bomb costs two or three million dollars. Whereas, for the price of a handful of cartoons, we're getting them to burn thier own cities.

I've always wanted to be a defense contractor.

Taliban offer gold reward for cartoonist

from the Sydney Morning Herald
A senior military commander of the Taliban says the Taliban will give 100 kilograms of gold as a reward to anyone who killed the person responsible for "blasphemous" cartoons in Denmark, Afghan Islamic Press has reported.

"Any one who will kill the person responsible for blasphemous cartoons of Prophet Mohammed in Denmark would be rewarded 100 kilogram of gold by the Taliban," Mullah Dadullah, chief military commander of the Taliban, said.

I've got a . . . friend who wants to . . . send you a gift.

let's do the time-warp again!
it's just a jump to the left.
and another step to the le-e-e-e-e-ft.
with your hands on your hips,
you bring your knees in tight.
but it's the pelvic thru-u-u-ust
that really drives you insa-a-a-a-ne.
let's do the time-warp again!
let's do the time-warp again!

"Hey man, spare a dollar for a brother biker?”

I look up to see an elderly bum decked out in full H.O.G. attire. I offer him a smoke, but have no intention of parting with real money. He starts telling me his hard luck story. He’s been homeless for about a six months. Lost the job, lost the wife, lost the house. Now he’s cruising around the Southwest on his Harley. And he just needs a few bucks to fill the tank, and get to the next town. This I have to see. We walk around the corner to look at his bike.

It is the sorriest, beat-to-death, early '90s Softtail I have ever seen. Frayed cables, dented sheet metal, bald tires over bent rims. There is a slow and steady drip out of the primary. It smells strange, too. Not in the normal “burnt oil” way. He offers to sell me his tool kit for twenty bucks. It has some nice Snap-On wrenches,  but Harleys are standard, and these tools are all metric. Still, it is getting on Christmas . . . might as well do my good deed for the year. I tell him, I live a block away.

I take him back to my garage to give him a quart of oil. I catch a momentary sneer on his face as he sees my Victory. I see his lips form the words “Jap bike”. As I fix the throttle cable he tells me he’s just waiting for the money from his "slip and fall lawsuit" against KFC to come through.

I swear every bum in L.A. has a lawsuit in the works.

An hour goes by fixing little things. We compare notes on riding, women and how we both have been in serious accidents. He asks if I have any of the pain pills left? I tell him "it’s been nice to meet you," and start shooing him out the door.

As he rides away, I think . . . "At least it’s better than a shopping cart".