Suzanne Betrand, Family Finance

We are likely in the midst of the deepest, most painful recession we have seen in our life times, so the question is:  Why are so many so giddy?

I believe it’s because we’re all getting free gas.  Before you consider this untrue because you have yet to find a gas station just giving it away at the pump, consider the facts and the math:

*  Only a few months ago, the average price for gasoline in the United States was over $4.00 per gallon.  In various reaches of the country, most particularly California, the price for premium hit $5.00 per gallon.

*  Today, due to the good fortune of the world’s economic collapse, the average price for gas in America sits at less one-half the price it recently was, namely $1.70 per gallon.

*  So it stands to reason that if it used to cost you, say, $100 to fill up the tank of your SUV, and now it costs you only $50, you have an extra $50 to spend each time you fill up that only last August you wouldn’t have had.  It’s found money.  What can you do with this extra $50?  Obviously, put it toward filling your tank.  Voila!  The price of your gas is now free.

There are various economists, mathematicians, and even a few 5th grader’s that might argue with this logic, but it is indeed true.  Why else would people be singing in the streets over $1.70 gas?  Been to a gas station lately?  Complete strangers are actually smiling, talking to each other, and high-fiving like they’ve won the lottery.  It’s party city at the pump, even in the middle of this recession-cum-depression that surrounds us.  Our 401K’s might be kaput, our stocks in shambles, and our homes now worth less than a mid-sized Honda, but free gas has everyone buzzing from the filling station to the water cooler over this unexpected windfall.

But wait!.  There’s more.  It’s not just gas that’s now free.  Cars are free too.  There is a car dealership in Miami now advertising “buy one, get one free” for Dodge pickup trucks (limit ten per customer, please).  This concept is going to spread like wild fire to other dealers as the auto industry continues to crumble.   People will begin to put two and two together and jump at these deals as they realize the last time they saw Free Truck + Free Gas was prom night in high school.

And then there’s free advice.  Here’s some.  Before all  this economic turmoil goes any further, there are only 12 companies left standing, and half of America is unemployed, ExxonMobil ought to just go ahead and buy Ford, Chrysler, and GM and get it over with.  As of today, while only Chrysler can be had for free (its largest investor, Daimler, has written their 20% share down to zero), the combined worth of what’s left standing at GM and Ford is now a mere $10 billion.  

$10 billion’s a lot of money, you say?  ExxonMobil  clears that much in profit in three weeks.  It is a natural marriage of sorts.  When car sales are slow, Exxon-Ford-GM-Chrysler-Mobil Inc. can lower the price of gas to . . .  um . . .  free, and cars will fly off the lot.  And when car sales start getting out of hand, they can raise the price of gas back to $4.00 again.

Drive safely.

Copyright 2008 – Saturday Morning Post – All Rights Reserved

From our Washington Desk

The following is a transcript from a wishful hearing of the House Financial Services Committee regarding the $25 billion Detroit auto bailout proposal before Congress:

Chairman Barney Frank: I’d like to call on our next witness, Mrs. Oprah Winfrey, to make her opening statement.”

Mrs. Winfrey: “Thank you, Mr. Chairman.    While I was not born in Detroit, I can tell you that-”

Rep. Peter King (R-NY):  Excuse me, Mr. Chairman.  I’m sorry to interrupt.  I have great admiration for Mrs. Winfrey, but why in God’s name is she testifying before us on a bail out bill for Chrysler, Ford, and GM?”

Chairman Frank: “If the gentleman from New York will hold his tongue for a moment and let the witness speak, I’m sure he will find out.”

Mrs. Winfrey: “As I was saying, I’m not from Detroit, but I do know something about giving away cars.  I have given away hundreds on my show and it’s really quite easy.  What you do is you gather a lot of people in a studio audience and you-”

Rep. Deborah Pryce (R-OH):  “I thought the bill under consideration would give away money, not cars, Mr. Chairman.”

Chairman Frank: “If the gentle lady will yield, yes, it was originally our intent to simply provide money directly to these car companies so that they survive this financial crisis.  However, we have amended that bill to provide a benefit not only to “the Big Three” in Detroit, but to the American consumer as well.”

Rep. Price: “I see, and how does this work.”

Chairman Frank: “Well, as Mrs. Winfrey was about to explain in her testimony, our plan is to have the government purchase $25 billion worth of cars from GM, Chrysler, and Ford, and then give them away to everyone that qualifies.  By our estimates, 1.25 million people will get a free car, and Detroit will get their $25 billion.”

Rep. Maxine Waters (D-CA):  “If I may, given this is my amendment, I would like to speak to it, Mr. Chairman.”

Chairman Frank: “Please go right ahead.”

Rep Waters: “The “Oprah approach” is the most economical way for us to help both the auto makers, and those in need.  To qualify for a free car, a person must meet one of four tests.  They must have have a family income of less than $32,000.  Or, they must own a car with greater than 100,000 miles that has broken down more than once in the last year.  Or, they must be behind on their car payments by over three months.  Or, finally, they must have lost their home to foreclosure in the last four weeks.”

Rep. King: “Foreclosure?  Didn’t we already bail out all the people going through foreclosure with the $700 billion we approved in October?  Why give them a free car as well?”

Rep. Waters:  “That was for people couldn’t afford the home they bought in the first place and who are likely going to lose it in the future.  This amendment will ensure that those who have already lost their home will have something to sleep in  –  an SUV or a Hummer – some sort of large model car that will fit a family for four or five.”

Mrs. Winfrey: “I want to assure this entire panel that you will make 1.25 million friends for life.  The look on the faces of these people when they get a free car is just priceless.  They start screaming and hollering, and just about pee in their pants.  It’s something you’ll never forget.”

Rep. King:  “Well, I was going to say this was a really stupid idea, but now that I think of it-”

Rep. Waters:  “And there is another benefit with this program as well.  Detroit has been building these massive gas-guzzlers for years because we’ve refused to hold them to fuel efficiency standards.  Now that nobody’s buying them because filling the tank three times per week is as expensive as paying the mortgage, we have leveled the playing field for everyone, homeowners and car owners alike.”

Rep. Bachus (R-AL)  “What about options?  Leather seating, surround sound, climate control?”

Chairman Frank: “Staff has informed me we can get these cars fully loaded, the whole works, for an additional $75 million.”

Rep. Waters: “I would welcome an amendment to add these custom accessories to the bill.”

Rep. Bachus: “How about trade-ins?  Will we take trade-ins?  I’m sure our constituents will ask.”

Chairman Frank: “The Department of Defense has made a request that we accept trade-ins and that we send them to Iraq.  After five years of car bombings, there are apparently only twenty-seven cars left in Bagdad, and people need a way to get around.”

Rep. Waters: “Mr. Chairman, I move that we accept the amendment on the options package and I ask for a roll call vote on the Oprah Omnibus Detroit Bailout and Reconciliation bill before us.”

Chairman Frank: “All in favor say “Aye.”  All opposed say “No.”  It appears the “Ayes” have it.  The Clerk will read the next matter before the Committee.”

Clerk: “A bill, sponsored by Rep. Maloney, to provide free coach-class tickets on an airline of their choice to ten million Americans . . .”

Copyright 2008 The Saturday Morning Post - All Rights Reserved

Suzanne Betrand, Health and Living

As Congress debates whether to rush headlong toward passage of yet another multi-billion dollar stimulus plan before year’s end, we ought to pause and consider canceling Christmas instead.  Hanukkah and  Kwanzaa ought to go as well.

Certainly, we ought to take time off to observe the holidays as usual.  Binge-drinking, over-eating like pigs in slop, making out with interns in the supply closet at office Christmas parties, fighting with visiting relatives you can’t stand, and celebrating all the tradition religious rituals that are part of the season should go forward as originally scheduled.  When I say “cancel,”  I mean simply ban the buying and giving of gifts.

Before you start believing this is nothing but a Scrooge-like diatribe against the season, consider the fact that the total financial meltdown and recession we are facing in America today is NOT because we spend too little, but rather because we spend too much.  As a country, and as a people, we can’t get any more over extended.

According to the National Retail Federation, total holiday sales for 2008 are projected to equal $470 billion dollars.  Can you say “WTF?”  Believe me when I tell you that in these financial times, there are about seven or eight people in the United States with enough money to rub two nickles together much less spend $470 billion on Christmas presents.  There is one way, and only one way, Americans are going to spend that amount of money on gifts to each other, and that’s by borrowing big-time on their Amex and Visa and going further into debt.

Which makes it all the more strange that the government is now considering whether to pass not one, but two, more “stimulus” spending plans on top of the $150 billion package passed last Spring to “boost the economy” over the next few months. Just how does this work?  The government, which is now over $10 trillion in debt, and will face an almost $1 trillion budget deficit next year, is preparing to borrow several hundred billion more to . . . to . . . get more people to spend more money.  The reasoning is that when people start spending again, the economy will get moving again, and we will all live happily ever after . . . again.

The trouble is all of this borrowing and spending and borrowing and spending and borrowing and spending is like a Dr. Strangelovian arms race, and it’s no way to end the war.  Think of the logic:  we have to spend money we don’t have, otherwise we won’t have money to spend what we don’t have.

Christmas is supposed to be a time of peace.  A time to put down arms.  The best way to call a “truce” is for all of us  –  every single one of us –  to join hands and declare an armistice on gift giving, and actually save $470 billion this year.    “Save.”  Now there’s a word you don’t see much of anymore.  A socio-economic linguistic study was done by Harvard Professor Richard Keller in 2006 in which it was determined that the phrase “save money” has not been uttered in America since a man named Ernest Styles said it to his son on August 26, 1959.  (Look it up).

The only problem with this gift-ban solution to our financial crisis and savings dilemma is the probability that one lousy individual  — one single uncaring, selfish American hiding within the 300 million among us   –  will break down, break ranks, and give in to the temptation to buy a gift for a small child, a grandmother, or a loved one during the holiday season.  That one, seemingly generous but disastrous act would unfortunately set off a doomsday-type chain reaction where it becomes irresistible for another to give, and then another, and then another, and before you know it, it is snowing, it is Christmas, and we are all $470 billion further in the hole.

We are doomed, it would seem, to shop till we drop.

Copyright The Saturday Morning Post 2008 – All Rights Reserved

Craig Bengle, Washington Bureau Chief

I don’t think I’ve gotten off to a good start on a Monday morning in years.

This past Monday was no exception.  Barefoot and bathrobe clad , I sauntered down to the end of the driveway to pick up the morning paper.  Imagine my surprise when I was greeted by a prim, young woman with clip board in hand and a disposition that was sunnier than it ought to be at that time of the morning.

“Mr. Bengle?” she chimed.

“Yes, that’s me.” I said, pulling the knot on my robe a little tighter.

“My name is Marjorie Williams, and I’m from the Federal Housing Finance Agency.”

“That’s great,” I said.  “What can I do for you at 6:30 a.m.?”

“Well, for starters,” she pulled out a form, “you can write me a check made payable to the U.S. Treasury in the amount of . . . of . . .  here it is, $1,243.36.”

“A check for twelve-hundred dollars?” I protested.  “You have the wrong house.  I already paid my property taxes this year.  I can prove it.”

“Actually, this is not about your house, Mr. Bengle,” she said assuringly.  “This is about keeping Mr. Peterson and his family in his.”

“You mean that guy down the street?,” I asked.  “That guy with the boat in his driveway, and that collection of ATV’s in the front lawn?  What in the heck do I have to do with him?  I barely even know him.”

“I guess you must not have heard the bad news,” she said.  “Mr. Peterson and his family have a bit of a problem.  They bought their home under the “No money down, Nothing to lose” program from Countrywide Mortgage and got a subprime, adjustable rate loan as well.”

“Yeah, so what?” I asked.  “Isn’t he also the guy who put that addition on to his house and dropped in a new pool last year.”

“Yes, that’s him.  Exactly right,” she pronounced.  “Well, there’s a bit of a problem we need your help with.  Apparently Mr. Peterson, who I assure you is a very nice man, and such a lovely family, also took out a 2nd mortgage on his home to pay for those little improvements and the-”

“ATVs?” I asked.

“Yes, yes.  All five,” she murmured.  “Anyway, the Federal Housing Finance Agency has decided that it would be preferable for you and five of Mr. Peterson’s closest neighbors to pitch in $1,243.36 per month for the next three months to help Mr. Peterson with his mortgage payments.”

“Are you kidding me?,” I fumed.  “Why in God’s name would I want to do that?  It’s not my fault that he’s overextended.  I mean, he’s the one who-”

“Did I mention the fact that Mr. Peterson’s “underwater” and owes more on the house than it’s worth?” she asked.   ”Would that change your mind?  I mean, its really pitiful.  He bought the home for $550,000 and now it’s worth only $195,000?”.

“Mam, I don’t care what his house is worth.  Maybe, maybe” I stammered, “maybe he shouldn’t have dug the hole for that pool in the first place.  Maybe he shouldn’t have bought all those-”

“Listen, Mr. Bengle,” she said impatiently.  “I have a lot of houses to visit today.  There are over ten million homeowners in Mr. Peterson’s situation, and that’s a lot of ground to cover in these heels.  If you don’t act and help us now, and I mean right now, Mr. Peterson’s home will join the ranks of the over 1 million that go through foreclosure this year.”

“What do I care?” I asked incredulously.  “It’s not my house.  It’s not my fault and it’s just not fair.  Take his stupid house.”

“This is not about fairness,” she declared.  “In fact, it’s for your own good.  If you don’t pay up the bank will have no choice but to take the Peterson’s home.”

“Great,” I said.  “I wouldn’t mind living next door to a banker.”

“That’s not how it works.  Do you think the bank is going to mow the lawn?  Clean the pool?  Paint the shutters?  We are talking major upkeep here, Mr. Bengle.  The bank just can’t afford that.  And believe me, when the bank’s good and ready, they’ll sell Mr. Peterson’s house for less than the price of that bathrobe you’re wearing.”

“They can’t do that,” I exclaimed. “His house is nicer than mine.  That will make my house worth . . . worth . . .”

“The underwear you’re wearing, Mr. Bengle?” she noted triumphantly.

“But I’m not wearing any underwear,” I pleaded.

“That’s my point, and by the way, that was evident from twenty feet away, sir,” she grinned.  “So, now, if you will, I’d like that check, please.”

“I guess I have no choice,” I said dejectedly, “This is all so unusual and so unexpected.  You would think the government would just raise my taxes instead of having me argue with you in my driveway.”

“Oh, the tax increases are coming too,” she stated flatly.  “You have four neighbors within a block who can’t make payments on their cars from General Motors.”

“So?” I said.

“That bail out’s next,” she whispered.  ”So we’re going to need some help from you on that as well.”

Copyright 2008 The Saturday Morning Post – All Rights Reserved

Dr. Crabby Montgomery

Dr. Crabby Montgomery’s award winning personal advice column appears each Thursday in Writing Frontier. Are you a reader with a vexing problem at work or home who could use some common sense advice or wisdom from Crabby? Have a neighbor threatening you with gardening tools? On the run from the law? Impregnated your son’s kindergarten teacher and looking for tips on how to handle the conversation with your wife? Crabby’s here for you. Just send your questions and concerns to “Dear Crabby” in our “Comments” box below.

Dear Crabby:

My husband and I are investment bankers who were recently laid off from our jobs at Lehman Bros. on Wall Street during all of the turmoil of this financial crisis.  While we have lost our jobs, we consider ourselves lucky because our high salaries from the past plus our wonderful bonuses throughout the years have allowed us to put together quite a nice “nest egg” for rainy day occasions like this.  I admit, we are more fortunate than most others.  Now we have moving on our mind, and are on a quest to find the most unique and hospitable town in America in which to settle and raise our two wonderful kids.  Suggestions?

Signed,

On the Move (NY, NY)

-

Dear “On the Move:”

Let’s see.  How about Hell, you greedy, good-for-nothing turd?  How about “nesting” yourself there?

-

Dear Crabby:

I am a single mom with a 14 year-old daughter who is just as cute as a button and full of life. She’s popular at school, does well with her grades, and is a great help around the house. I couldn’t be more proud of how she’s handled the tough years of an early teen. However, I was recently surprised when I came home from work to find her at home alone with a boy from her class. I caught them “necking” (I hope that doesn’t date me!!!) on the couch in front of the TV. She knows the rules – no boys at home without my permission or when I’m not home. Is this the beginning of teen rebellion, or just a one time thing from an otherwise terrific child?

Signed,

A little bit nervous (Arlington, VA)

Dear “A little bit nervous”:

You have a slut on your hands. I have heard from thousands of single mothers in your same sad position over the years, and in every single case it has turned out they were unwittingly raising a slut. Not much you can do about it. About the best you can do is enroll your child in teen parenting classes, get a crib, and get ready to paint the extra bedroom or den pink or blue.

-

Dear Crabby:

Help! My husband and I started an innocent NFL betting pool in our neighborhood at the beginning of this season as a lark. Our interest was in finding a way for everyone on our street to get to know each other better and come together more closely as a community. Had we only known! What started out as a small effort involving a dollar here and there on a couple of games on Sunday has turned into a huge affair. So many of our neighbors and friends have gotten interested that the pool each week is up to $10,000 and it has darn near become a full time job for my husband and our five children to run the betting pool. We are so thankful we have gotten to meet our neighbors and make some new friends, but I’m afraid it’s getting out of hand and is just way too much work. What do you suggest?

Signed,

Place your Bets (Mobile, AL)

Dear “Place your Bets”:

I have heard of idiots before, but this takes the cake. You have unwittingly involved yourself and your entire family in highly illegal activity. The State of Alabama punishes even first time organized off-track betting offenders (ASC Code 198-B-42) to the fullest extent of the law and there is every reason to believe that all involved, including any of your children who participated, will be going to jail or juvenile detention facilities. We debated for a moment whether or not to inform the authorities in this matter and felt obligated to provide your letter, including name, address and telephone number to the State Attorney’s office in Mobile, AL. You will be hearing from them directly within three business days. Go Broncos!

Dear Crabby:

My husband and I are about at the end of our rope. Our teenage son was recently arrested for drug possession. We have tried just about everything in our power, from Scared Straight programs to Outward Bound. We love our son dearly and will go to any length to get him on the right path, but nothing seems to work. What else can we try?

Signed,

Desperate (Tulsa, OK)

Dear “Desperate”:

I get the sense that the two of you are just lousy parents. Sometimes it’s that simple. Have you ever stopped to consider that it might have been your backwards raising of the child in the first place? Few parents do. If he is as incorrigible as you say he is, you have obviously done something wrong. He is likely a danger to himself, your neighbors, frankly – your whole community. My advice is that you should accept your responsibility for this, be ashamed of your failures, and move on.

Dear Crabby:

After twenty wonderful years of marriage, I just know my husband is drifting from me. I am just about to turn the corner at 50 years old, and starting to suspect that he is having an affair. We live in a small town (Xenia, Ohio) and I am so fearful that I am going to have my suspicions confirmed by a dear friend or relative before my husband, who I still adore, comes clean with me. Should I simply trust him and hope for the best, or should I begin to follow him or even hire a private investigator?

Signed,

Distraught (Xenia, OH)

Dear “Distraught”:

Thank you for writing. We traced your IP address back to your home computer and know that while you are “Distraught,” you are also Mrs. Barbara Blogonovich of 2342 Willow Way, Xenia, Ohio. It is common knowlege, indeed we can confirm, that your husband Robert is having an affair involving sexual relations with a Ms. Jennifer Aston of 108 Alpine Street, Apartment 5B, Xenia, Ohio. Find herein a photo of Ms. Aston. My advice is that you not kid yourself. Pack it up. It’s over. You live in a small town, and this is going to be hugely embarassing.

Dear Crabby:

You think you are funny, don’t you? I have been reading your supposed “advice” columns for several months now and I think you’re a joke. Not only are you a rude, angry person, but the advice you dole out to people who are simply seeking some help in their lives is just plain ridiculous. You should be ashamed of yourself.

Signed,

Had Enough (La Jolla, CA)

Dear “Had Enough”:

Your father and I are having dinner at the McGarry’s house tonight. I put some chicken and a potato in the oven for you. When you get home, set the temperature at 350 degrees for one hour. See you when we get home.

Dear Crabby:

Barney

We need some advice regarding our cherished dog, Barney. (I’ve enclosed a photo for you). Our problem is two-fold. Barney is not only very clever, he’s also quite an athlete for his size. He has learned to jump the six-foot fence in our backyard, and has escaped several times in the past month. To make matters worse, our neighbors have grown quite angry because Barney has gotten into their trash and on one or two occasions left “droppings” here and there on their lawns. One has called Animal Control and become quite irate; another actually kicked Barney and bruised him badly. We simply cannot bring ourselves to give Barney away, but we also cannot afford to erect a higher fence to keep him in. Advice?

Signed,

Dog-goned Concerned

Dear “Dog-goned Concerned”:

Yeah, right. I’ll give you $50 bucks if that dog can jump over two feet, much less six. In the event that he actually can, you have some kind of mutant circus dog on your hands. You’re going to need to maim him somehow, and badly. That’s the only way they learn. I’m not talking about using a rolled-up newspaper like they teach in obedience school, but rather a large, blunt-edged object that will put an end to this trouble once and for all.

Dear Crabby:

I have been seeing a wonderful man for two years. He is twenty years older than me, but we are madly in love. Or at least I thought we were. Everything between us is just so right so I cannot understand why he has not popped the question. I am beginning to wonder whether he is as committed to the relationship as I am. He often makes excuses as to why he cannot stay the night, and he is out of town so much that I am wondering if he has another woman somewhere and is just afraid to tell me. Should I confront him or leave well enough alone?

Signed,

Lonely in Love (Xenia, OH)

Dear “Lonely in Love”:

Let’s see. Where to begin? If this is who we think it is (see attached photo) then, yes, the jig is up. Your man has some explaining to do. Please refer to our recent response, above, to “Dear Distraught” as you will find you two have much in common.

Copyright 2008 The Saturday Morning Post – All Rights Reserved

Martina Portamayou, Chief Political Correspondent

A “trillion” is “in.”

It is, hands down, the hottest number in the American lexicon today, and for good reason. It’s the newest “power word,” kind of like “Weapon of Mass Destruction” used to be. If you know a lot about a trillion dollars, it says something about you. It says you know a lot. It’s on the lips of economists, politicians, and bankers who are starting to casually drop it like bomblets in news interviews and congressional hearings to get everyone’s attention. It’s the “neutron weapon” word that stills a congressional hearing room.

Senator: “And how much is that going to cost us?”

Witness: “A trrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiillllllllllllllllllllllllllllllliiiiiiiiiiiiiioooooonnnnnnnnnnnnn dollars, Senator.”

It’s so much money, that by all rights that’s how many letters we ought to use to spell it and how we ought to say it.

And, it’s a cool phrase too. It just rolls off the tongue. Try it.

“A trrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiillllllllllllllllllllllllllllllliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiooooonnnnnnnnnnnnn dollars.”

So just how much is a trillion dollars?

For starters, it’s $1,000,000,000,000. That’s 12 zeroes to the left of the decimal point. A trillion is a million million dollars. What can we do with it? According to serious experts and current events, here’s the list of things that can be done with $1 trillion:

a. Fight one war in Iraq. $1 trillion is now the common figure used to estimate the price tag for the war. I am not sure, but in hindsight, we probably could have simply bought Iraq for half that amount five years ago and given it status like Puerto Rico, Guam, or the USVI. That would have saved a lot of trouble.

b. Avoid an imminent meltdown of the U.S. financial system. At least this is what Secretary of the Treasury Paulson tells us. The financial portfolios of millions of Americans, from stocks to retirement account to the kids college education fund, have already melted. I’m not sure just who else is left to be “protected from the meltdown of the U.S. financial system,” but I apparently we didn’t make the list.

c. Rebuild one-half of the bridges and roads in the U.S. in dire need of repair. For those of us unfortunate enough to drive on the other half of the roads and bridges that will continue to collapse and crumble because $1 trillion is not enough, hold on to your Hummers and 4-wheel drives.

d. Pay back China for the amount of debt it is owed by the U.S. Apparently, because of the over $1 trillion U.S./China trade deficit (think iPod), every man, woman, and child in the United States has over the past 10 years in effect borrowed about $4,000 from every man, woman, and child in the People’s Republic of China. This is true. I received a letter recently from a Mr. Hung Cho Lee of Shanghai Province, and he is most definitely counting on getting back every yuan I apparently owe him so that he can buy a car.

These dire needs, from fighting wars to paying back China, are all well and good. But in my view, they lack poetry and imagination. Frankly, it’s our money we’re talking about here, so we ought to be thinking bigger about what a trillion dollars really means and what it’s worth. Here are just a few examples.

It is a fact that If you laid $1 trillion worth of one dollar bills end to end, you could make a lot of strippers happy. However, you could choose to keep your head about you, forgo these strippers, and build a chain of those same one dollar bills that would stretch from the earth to the moon and back again 200 times before you ran out of dollar bills! In fact, one trillion dollars in “singles” would stretch nearly from the earth to the sun. I say “nearly” because a least a couple hundred billion would go up in flames before you reached the heat of the sun leaving you nothing to spend when you got there. Everyone knows this.

Here’s another bit of trillion dollar trivia for you, and indeed an alternative to the next “fiscal stimulus” plan already being contemplated by the government that I would happily support. It would take a jet flying at the speed of sound, spewing out a constant string of dollar bills behind it, fourteen years before it ran out of $1 trillion. Can you say “stimulus?” How stimulating would it be to join your friends, neighbors, and family for the daily slug fest as this money flitted to ground from overhead each day, every day, for fourteen years?

And I’m just getting started. I recently uncovered a list developed by Andrew Davis, Communications Director for the Libertarian Party, of other incredibly interesting things that $1 trillion will apparently buy. I like the way this guy Davis thinks. Here’s a partial list, with an admitted bit of running commentary on the side. $1 trillion buys:

Everybody living in Los Angeles at least one Lamborghini Gallardo. In my view, this would be stupid because everyone in LA already owns a Lamborghini.

Getting half of the Democratic Party into a fundraiser for Barack Obama at the $28,500 admission price. I am confused as to why this is on the list as a novelty because I was at this event in September.

Giving one out of every two men in the United States a Men’s Presidential Rolex watch or buying every woman in the United States a Tiffany Diamond Starfish Pendant. I think the outcome of this choice is pretty clear. I won’t be getting rid of my Timex anytime soon.

Sending everybody in America on an all-inclusive vacation to Italy. I would personally strike this from the list as this already occurred when I was honeymooning in Florence last year.

Buying everyone living in Belize and Malta a Manhattan apartment. If everyone in the Upper West side gets a vote, I am thinking we end up buying everyone in Manhattan an apartment in Belize instead. Or a time share would be fine.

Buying everyone in Buffalo, NY their own 65-acre island in Panama. My family’s from Buffalo. Believe me, they won’t hold out for a balmy island in Central America. They’ll take sixty-five square feet of Myrtle Beach anytime between November and May.

So that about does it for what $1 trillion will buy. For those who can’t get enough of the “Law of Large Numbers,” I leave you with this. When I was in grade school, we studied the number “Googol.” Anyone who knows the concept of a Googol also knows that it equals a lot more than one trillion. Indeed, it is the number “1″ followed by one-hundred zeros. Now that’s a lot of money. However, the more recent definition of a “Googol” has changed just a bit. Today, a Googol is what you would be worth had you been one of the original investors in “Google.”

Copyright 2008 – The Saturday Morning Post -  All Rights Reserved

Gordon Mensley, Contributing Editor

I believe there is a trend that continues to grow in our media where the following rule applies: if you want to be a winner in America today, you first have to lose.

America has always loved the underdog, to be sure. It is something basic and unique to our character that we absolutely love to celebrate the man or woman who beats the odds, comes from behind, and demonstrates extraordinary will, courage or character to succeed. And why not? You can’t help but hope to see yourself in these people with indomitable spirit who defy terrible tragedy, spit in its eye, and find themselves sitting on the top of the world.

The media, in particular, can’t resist these human interest stories. It is just about impossible to read through a newspaper or watch a TV news program or Reality Show (what’s the difference?) these days and not be treated to one of these awe-inspiring tales of triumph over adversity. Here’s one about a reformed heroin addict who lost ten years of his life to prison, only to rise from the ashes to become a world-renowned chef. Here’s another about the kid who lost his arm to an alligator and who has miraculously become a world champion billiards player. And here’s another about a woman diagnosed with incurable cancer who had 6 months to live, laughed at the doctor, and just finished winning a national triathlon contest five years post-diagnosis.

I just can’t stand these people. Not because they’re not heroes, but because they have a way of making the rest of us look like real losers. If they are winners, is a loser someone who never lost in the first place?

That’s what the media in America is conditioning us to believe. I know this from personal experience. I won an award recently. Believe me, it wasn’t for something heroic. I met with a reporter from a local radio station and it was obvious he was looking for any color he could add to the story about my background to draw some listener attention. The interview went something like this:

Reporter: “Great, now that I have what I need about how you won the award, tell me something about yourself.”

Me: “Well, I was raised in a happy household with a loving mom and dad and three brothers and sisters. I was an athlete in high school, got good grades, went on to a terrific University, landed my first job at twenty-one, worked real hard, made money, and here I am today.”

Reporter: “That’s it?”

Me: “Yep, that’s about it.”

Reporter: “You’re kidding me. Nothing more interesting than that?”

Me: “You sound disappointed. Did I say something wrong? Did I leave something out?”

Reporter: “Leave something out? Mister, I got nothing to go on. My editors are going to kill this story if you can’t come up with something better than that.”

Me: “Something better?”

Reporter: “Yeah. Don’t you have something the least bit interesting in your background before you won this award that our audience can sink their teeth into? How about drugs? Ever been addicted?”

Me: “No. I wrote a paper on drug addiction in college. Does that count?”

Reporter: “Not quite. How about abuse? Did your mother or father beat you routinely, kick you out of the house, leaving you to wander from one foster home after another in search of the love you never had?”

Me: “No, like I said, they were great parents.”

Reporter: “Too bad. That would have been a great angle. Have you lost your wife or kids in a terrible car accident and reached the point where grief and misery led you to become a useless alcoholic who reformed after five years or more?”

Me: “For God’s sake, no.”

Reporter: “C’mon. You have to be able to think of something terrible, some tragedy you’ve overcome. Otherwise, this story is dead.”

I could feel this story on my award slipping away with each question and I started to kick myself for telling all my friends at work it was going to be aired. My mind raced to think of something, anything tragic about my background, but I could tell the reporter was running out of time and patience.

Me: “Well, there is something I can faintly remember.”

Stalling for time.

Reporter: “Great. What is it?”

Me: “Well, there was this neighbor we had when I was growing up. I used to mow her lawn for $5.00 per week.”

Reporter: “I’m afraid I have to go.”

Me: “Wait. Wait. It gets better. One day she refused to pay me what she owed, so I-, I-”

Reaching. Reaching.

Reporter: “You what? What?”

Me: “I, uh, I pulled out a knife and I stabbed her chest like a bloody rag doll. Over and over. It happened in an instant.”

Reporter: “Holy, crap. Why didn’t you say this before? Perfect. Was this killing never discovered and you were wracked with guilt all these years?”

Me: “Guilt? Yes, that’s it. Guilt. I have so much of it. But it wasn’t just the stabbing. It was my years on the run and everything in between that nearly took my life.”

Was I going to far?

Reporter: “That’s it. Let it out. Let it all out.”

Maybe not.

Me: “There was the endless nights of crack cocaine. The ocean of booze. And don’t leave out the part about demeaning the never ending string of prostitutes during my years as a pimp.”

Reporter: “I thought you said you never had a problem with drugs or alcohol?”

Me: “And you believed me? I was diagnosed at age 12 as a pathological liar.”

Reporter: “Now we’re talking. Now we’re talking.”

I had reached the point of no return.

Me: “Do you want to hear about my bout with pyromania and the church burnings in the South I am so sorrowful for?”

Reporter: “That was you? Mister, I think we’re both going to be up for awards.”

Me: “So how’s my story. Am I the winner you were looking for?”

Reporter: “Definitely. You are a total loser.”

Copyright 2008 – The Saturday Morning Post – All Rights Reserved

Fred Bayone, Editor, Style and Entertainment

Like almost 10 million other Americans this year, I am a victim of identity theft.

It’s happening thousands of times a day. It starts with someone getting ahold of your Social Security number, a cancelled check, a PIN number, or a credit card. From there, they take on your identify and proceed to run up a tab that would make Bill Gates blush.

Identity theft takes another victim

Your life is never the same again.

What a mess. Anyone who has gone through this terrible ordeal and lived to survive can tell you how difficult it is to piece your life back together once someone has essentially stolen it.

The misery of having to convince your creditors, banks, credit card companies, utilities, and favorite stores that it was not you who bounced all those checks or ran up all those unpaid bills is just a nightmare. Like the old expression goes “What office do I go to get my reputation back?”

Fortunately for me, getting my life back started with the police catching the guy who stole my identity. He was caught red-handed. I was even lucky enough to be asked to go down to the precinct headquarters and identify him before they carted him off to jail. Looking through a one-way mirror, my fiance’ and I were offered the chance to peer into and listen in on the interrogation session in which this slime ball was forced to come clean. Here’s an excerpt from that transcript:

Detective: “. . . So do you understand your rights?”

Slime ball: “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get on with it.”

Classic "slime ball" interrogation

Detective: “OK, so where have you been in the last twenty-four hours, and when did you first start using Mr. Bayone’s name for unlawful purposes.”

Slime ball: “It all started when I made the mistake of placing a bet with a bookie on this Sunday’s game with the Jets. I tell the guy I’m this guy Fred Bayone, and he just about comes through the phone screaming bloody murder at me. Something about owing him $25,000.”

Um, yeah. That bet.

Slime ball: “He tracks me down through caller ID, and the next thing I know, he’s standing there at my front door with an axe in his hand. And I swear to Jesus there is six or seven other bill collectors behind him in line yelling and screaming for Bayone like they pissed their pants. I guess word got out. So I beat feet out the back door.”

Detective: “OK. Then what happened?”

Slime ball: “I bolt down the alley, and duck into a bar on the corner. I order one lousy beer using a credit card with this guy Bayone’s name on it, and the bartender sees the name and comes across the bar at me with a baseball bat.”

Detective: “For ordering a beer?”

Slime ball: “Thats what I’m thinking. Then he starts in on me on how I must be the guy who got his sister pregnant when she was 16, and that he was gonna break my legs. I started-”

"The Fred Bayone?"

Sixteen?

[Our story pauses here for a moment for a striking blow against Mr. Bayone from said fiance' followed by screaming, violent, tearful exit of said fiance.].

Slime ball: “I guess she was a stripper. “Juicy Galore” is what the guy is yelling while he’s hammering me with this bat.”

Detective: “So is that where the patrolman picked you up?”

Slime ball: “I wish. So I figure I should try my luck at this guy’s bank. I run across the street to the Bank of America to make a withdrawal on this guy’s account. Trouble is, the teller calls the manager on me because this Bayone, this S.O.B., is $5,000 overdrawn.”

Maybe it was not such a good idea to come down here . . .

Detective: “You’re kidding me.”

Slime ball: “No I ain’t. I mean, now I start thinking “Has this guy no shame?” I mean, for Chrissake’s, I’m thinking who is this crook and what kind of mess does he got me tied into.”

Detective: “OK, then what?”

Slime ball: “I get a call from my brother who says a truck has just towed my car right out in front of my house. I mean, like I blow my lid. Apparently, this guy Bayone’s six months behind on his car payments, and the repo-man comes and gets my car. I mean where is the justice? When I get my hands on this guy, I swear-”

Detective: “Alright, calm down. When we’re done here, you can file a civil complaint against Mr. Bayone for the car.”

File a what?

Slime ball: “Lemme tell you. This guy hasn’t heard the last of me. I’m gonna sue. I swear I’m gonna sue.”

Detective: “Fine, fine. Finish your story.”

Slime ball: “So I got no choice. I’m miles from my house now, and I swear I got a broken foot from that beating in the bar. So I steal a car – just to get me home, mind you – and then I get pulled over by the cops for speeding. By you guys.”

Detective: “It says here they arrested you for two outstanding warrants – both for indecent exposure and urinating in a public place.”

This is not going to be pretty.

"Mr. Bayone, please step out of the car"

Slime ball: “Wrong guy. It’s that pervert Bayone. When they pulled me over I gave them the license I had made up with his name on it. The next thing I know they cuff me and tell me to keep my peter in my pants. That’s all they kept saying “Keep your peter in your pants, Mr.”

Detective: “I see. Officer, could you bring Mr. Bayone in here and-”

Like so many others these days, I am a victim of identity theft.

Copyright 2008 – The Saturday Morning Post – All Rights Reserved

Dr. Adam Bomb, Science and Technology Correspondent

It is three o’clock in the morning, and I find myself once again waiting for Fred to come home. I am fuming, and my wife is in tears upstairs, unable to sleep. This time he has snuck downstairs, jimmied the lock to the basement door, casually hopped the backyard fence, and is out and about on the town in the hunt for more, excuse me, “tail.” I am worried sick about him all over again.

But why? He reminds me of myself when I was young. Rebellious. Good looking. Athletic. Boundless energy. And to top it all off, a real trouble maker. We have lectured him over and over about the problems that await him if he’s not careful who he runs with — from fast cars to the dangers of unprotected sex. But Fred goes his own way, just like tonight.

Hands down, Fred is the smartest dog I know.

Now I don’t mean the usual “isn’t that cute” type of smarts when a dog can balance a bone on its nose, roll over and play dead, or perform any number of the “stupid pet tricks” you might see on David Letterman. I mean this dog is scary smart.

We were first introduced to Fred, a Jack Russell terrier, when he was a pup. Our son Brock was home from college for spring break and picked him up one day from “Rent-A-Pup,” a store here in town that rents puppies for $8.00 per hour to guys looking to meet girls. The idea is you “own” the dog for just a few hours, long enough for a few walks in the park or on the beach. Without fail, the adorable puppy serves as a magnet to any number of equally cute young girls.

Rent-A-Fred

They, in turn, can’t resist playing with the pup, and hopefully, providing their phone number as well to this sensitive guy. Our tale takes a sharp wag here because when Brock rented Fred he met Michelle who not not only provided her phone number, but eventually after two years, her hand in marriage. This courtship necessitated some fancy footwork on my part because after Brock returned to school that year, I was forced to dash to “Rent-A-Pup” every time Michelle called asking if she could drop in to say “hi.” Eventually, it became both easier on my conscience and my wallet to switch from Rent-A-Fred to Buy-A-Fred, and here we are.

We first noticed there was something odd about Fred when he was going through house training. We get the New York Times delivered at home, so there was no lack of newspaper to spread when it came time for him to learn to do his “doody” in the right spot. “All the news that’s print to sh*t,” I thought. But try as we might, he adamantly refused to relieve himself on the Times. There he would sit, for hours and hours, sweating and groaning as though he had to go, all the while darting his head back and forth as though scanning the headlines, the Sports section, anything he could lay his paws on. He seemed to have a particular fascination for the Op-Ed section and the Sunday Crossword. Several times I found him howling over a Maureen Dowd column. However, throw down a few paper towels or an old grocery bag or two, and relieving himself was no problem. I discounted this strange behavior at the time as, after all, no dog can read, no matter how smart they are.

At least that’s what I kept telling myself. After a while, it became routine for the Times to go missing from the driveway, and like clockwork, I would find it neatly folded, but clearly read, just outside of Fred’s dog house. One week, on a lark, I took a trial subscription to the Wall Street Journal. Strangely enough, all week, I noticed the paper was terribly shredded and carried the faint odor of dog pee while it lay on the door step outside. And liberal too?

The matter grew more complicated when a book arrived in the mail one afternoon apparently ordered from Amazon.com. Entitled “Jack Russell Training Secrets,” I set it aside presuming my wife had ordered it for me for Christmas, or perhaps it was a guilty gift from our son for having left us with Rent-A-Fred. In any event, the book went missing and was never discovered among the stacks of newspapers and magazines that by now had found themselves in a “library” stored in a large box where Fred’s toys were supposed to go. No one in the family fessed up to ordering the book, and we started to get concerned.

Helllllllloooooo, Mrs. Draper

The “invisible” electric dog fence and collar I ordered came in October, a purchase I reluctantly made because Fred left us with no choice. He had found ways to dig under or climb over every square inch of our fence line and the neighbors were having fits over his antics. Mrs. Draper from three doors down complained loudly that she found Fred often lurking and peering into their bathroom window during her morning shower. Mr. Lindstrom apparently fired several 22-caliber rounds toward Fred for gnawing the corks off of his prized collection of Chateau Lafite stored in his garage. More than once Fred was dragged at the collar by Animal Control to our home late at night with the equivalent of fake I.D. — a set of false dog tags bearing the name and address of older and different breeds in the neighborhood.

Wind 5 mph; angle 37 degrees

Suffice it to say that training with the electric collar and fence was no easy chore. The instructions stated clearly that a dog of Fred’s size could not and should not tolerate a “shock setting” on his collar of anything larger than a “3″ on a 10 point scale, otherwise serious nerve damage, even brain injury or death could result. The problem was at settings “2″, “3″, and even as high as “4″, Fred treated the collar shock he received when he neared the invisible fence as though it was but a pesky flea. He simply kept right on walking. The collar was obviously defective. With my neighbor Mrs. Draper egging me on, I cranked the setting to “9″, the one reserved for Great Danes and St. Bernard’s, just to determine if any of the settings would work at all. Obviously having had a month to study this chapter of “Trainings Secrets” with particular zeal, Fred had calculated that the electric shock could be severely reduced, indeed almost eliminated, if he maintained a constant 37 degree angle to the length of the wire when jumping across. I watched as he measured his angle of attack and carefully stepped over the invisible fence with ease, heading once again toward the Chateau Lafite down the street. This was too much to bear. I raced after him, grabbed the defective collar from his throat, and clasped it to my own neck in disgust and with the certainty that I had bought a worthless product. Two days later, I awoke in the hospital with my wife and Fred staring down at me in deep sympathy.

With the exception of waiting up for him during late nights like this, we now let Fred go his own way. I can’t say we are happy with the results, but we have little choice. I started to play checkers with him for relaxation when I got home from work, but I have not beat him in weeks, so I’ve quit.

Mr. Lindstrom is the next to be humiliated. He has placed a new lock on the door to his garage. Sadly for him, this won’t work. I know this because two days ago, my wife caught Fred preparing a disguise that is surely meant to gain re-entry to Lindstrom’s house on Halloween in just a few weeks.

We are slated to take Fred to be neutered this Saturday. But I am sure he overheard us. He must have. We have not been able to find our car keys for three days.

Copyright 2008 The Saturday Morning Post – All Rights Reserved

Craig Bengle, Washington Bureau Chief

I just don’t have the stomach to watch these debates. Not McCain-Obama. Not Palin-Biden. I’m not sure why, but after half a lifetime in politics, I must have mellowed. I have developed an intense dislike, indeed a squeamishness, of tuning in for the ninety minutes of hand to hand combat these debates are meant to produce.

I know of no other way to describe the anxiety they stir up in me other than to conjure up an image of a terrible car wreck. Imagine you have happened upon a horrific accident just seconds after it occurred. You leap from your car, dash to the demolished vehicle with your heart pumping and adrenaline racing, lean close to the driver’s side window, take a deep breath, and . . .

Hesitate. God only knows what you’re going to see. And hear. For many of us, there is a split second before you reach inside the car and offer what help you can, and then actually doing it. For me, watching McCain-Obama or Palin-Biden go at it in a debate is ninety minutes of that same split second. True, I’m not going to find during these debates someone’s head has skittered twenty yards down the road away from his body or a CD-player is implanted right where a kidney is supposed to be. But for some reason these debates more so than others in years past feel like an accident waiting to happen. Kind of like a NASCAR race. 70 million people watching, and everyone tuning in for the wreck.

So I don’t watch. What I do is go to bed that night and conjure up images of the kind of debate I’d really like to see, if only once. A portion of it goes something like this:

Tom Brokaw, Moderator: “Mr. Obama, let me turn to you. As you know, we’re experiencing the most serious financial crisis since the Great Depression. The next President is going to have his hands full just trying to keep the economy from going right off the cliff, taking the American people with it. What specifically do you plan to do to prevent this from happening?”

Obama: “Got me. There’s really not all that much a President can do in this situation. It’s a big economy, you know? The market forces out there are bigger than any one man can affect, even a President.”

Brokaw: “Are you sure that’s your answer?”

Obama: “Yes, quite sure.”

McCain: “I’d like to take a stab at that. I agree with Barack. We both voted for the bail out bill, but that’s because we had to. Other than that, like I’ve said, I don’t know a lot about economics, but I know enough to say we’re basically powerless when trying to influence a $14 trillion economy. Let’s not kid ourselves.”

Brokaw: “OK, those weren’t exactly the answers I was expecting. But let’s move on to foreign policy. Let’s talk Iraq. Senator Obama, you’ve stated over and over that you think Iraq was a terrible mistake and that John McCain is responsible for the whole mess.”

Obama: “Yes, I did say that. But I want to take it back.”

Brokaw: “You what?”

Obama: “I said I want to take it back, Tom.”

Brokaw: “You can’t do that. You’re on national TV. There are over 50 million people watching. This is supposed to be a debate.”

AHK-MA-DINNY-JOB

Obama: “Well, I got to thinking. I’m a lawyer, not a general. I just don’t know a whole lot about fighting wars. I mean, I know as much as the next guy. I can pronounce “Iranian President Ahmadinejad,” but that’s because I practiced it with Michelle probably 1,000 times before coming on stage tonight.”

McCain: “Hell, I can’t even say it. “AHK-MA-DINNY-JOB, AH-MY-JINNY-BOB.” See?.”

Brokaw: “Neither of you are making my job easy. Let’s turn to taxes. I know the two of you are at each other’s throats over the issue of taxes. You can’t deny that. I’ve seen your commercials.  So take your best shots. Mr. Obama?”

Obama: “John and I were talking back stage-”

Brokaw: “I see.”

McCain: “As we understand it, the President of the U.S. makes $400,000 per year. Is that correct?”

Brokaw: “I have heard that, but what-”

McCain: “Then we want to exempt the $399,000 to $401,000 bracket from taxation.”

Brokaw: “That’s absurd. Mr. Obama, are you planning on going along with this self serving approach?”

Obama: “Well, I had to think long and hard about it, but, yes. I am still for giving a tax break to the lower and middle class. But I think this other bracket deserves some real attention too.”

McCain: “Tom, to be frank with you, $400,000 is not a lot of money. It may seem like it to many, but it is peanuts for pay when we are talking about the job of leading the free world.”

Obama: “Are we back on foreign policy? I thought we already covered foreign policy.”

McCain: “Yes, let’s move on.  Health care. I’d like to talk about our major differences in health care.”

Brokaw: “Thank God. Go right ahead.”

McCain: “Barack and I have switched positions since the last debate.”

Brokaw: “You’re kidding me, right?”

Obama: “No, he’s not kidding. I am beginning to think universal health care would be a mistake. I don’t think we can afford to launch a major clean energy program and have national health care at the same time. One of them has to go.”

McCain: “And I’m 72 years old. I’m starting to warm up to the idea of health care for anyone who wants it.”

Brokaw: “Gentlemen. I have to tell you, in all my years of moderating Presidential debates, I have never seen such a sorry excuse for a debate, and you are dreaming if you think the American people will put up with-”

McCain: “Don’t worry about it, Tom. The gentleman writing this story is the one dreaming and by the time he wakes up in the morning, it will be all over.”

Copyright 2008 The Saturday Morning Post – All Rights Reserved