My cousin and I are both long-time conservatives. We get together once in a while to discuss politics. Our discussions are pithy and to the point. He starts and ends it by stating: "I'm voting for President Bush because that's who I think the Prophet would vote for."
Gee, I ponder, aside from the fact that the prophet is as likely to open up a gambling hall in the Holy of Holies as he is to reveal this, how do you argue with such sound reasoning? Well, here it is, cousin.
D&C 101:77 states that, "the laws and constitution of the people, which [God has] suffered to be established, . . . should be maintained for the rights and protection of all flesh." That's right, cuz- all flesh, as in everyone on the face of the earth, not just you and me.
The current President and his administration do not believe this edict of God. They argued before the Supreme Court [and thankfully lost] that the constitution is not maintained, nor does it protect all flesh--only US citizens it declares worthy--everyone else can rot as long as the executive branch deems it necessary for national security. This notion and the message it sends has resulted in many horrendous errors in prosecuting the war in Iraq.
Therefore, dear cousin, while you may think you have a pretty important person directing your vote, I, after diligent and thoughtful study, believe I've got God directing mine.
Loren M. Lambert
© September 8, 2004
Wednesday, September 8, 2004
Tuesday, September 7, 2004
Ich bin ein Feloner
I recently heard that among the problems that Floridians are determined to fix with their new voting system, besides anchoring it in hurricane force winds, is preventing felons from voting. Apparently this is a big problem. Studies show that while only 30% of the general population regularly votes, if they could vote, 90% of the felons would--not! Floridians suspect that many felons voted in the last presidential election. Does that mean they voted for Bush? Hmmm. I would think they voted democratic. But who knows--maybe they cast all forty two of their illegal votes for Ralph Nader instead of Al Gore and the rest is history.
Unfortunately, felons are easy targets. There's not many politicians nor pundits stepping forward to champion their right to vote. And why should they? Who among us would sign a petition to allow such a right? But maybe we should. Think about it. If felons were allowed to vote, who would they vote for and how does one curry to the "felon voting block." "Vote for me because I'm the felon's friend," or "Vote blah-blah-blah because we're the party that's soft on crime." Wouldn't this at least let us know were the candidate or party stood on crime and punishment matters? And why shouldn't felons be allowed to vote based on this issue. Who is more knowledgeable about it?
But really, if felons could vote and the "felon vote" mattered, what would it say about our society? Look at any society gone wrong and you will find that the innocent have been "felonized" to prevent them from voting. Maybe we are doing that. Picture felons as the proverbial canary in the mine. If the vote of a felon can upset the political balance of a nation as great as ours it will mean that we too have felonized the innocent and sold our souls to the felons sitting in high offices. So, I say we should fear more the society that disenfranchises its felons than the felons who vote. Therefore, borrowing a phrase from Johh F. Kennedy, I say Ich bin ein Feloner and urge you all to fear more the indifference of the majority before you spend millions turning out the felon from the voting booth.
Loren M. Lambert, © September 7, 2004
Unfortunately, felons are easy targets. There's not many politicians nor pundits stepping forward to champion their right to vote. And why should they? Who among us would sign a petition to allow such a right? But maybe we should. Think about it. If felons were allowed to vote, who would they vote for and how does one curry to the "felon voting block." "Vote for me because I'm the felon's friend," or "Vote blah-blah-blah because we're the party that's soft on crime." Wouldn't this at least let us know were the candidate or party stood on crime and punishment matters? And why shouldn't felons be allowed to vote based on this issue. Who is more knowledgeable about it?
But really, if felons could vote and the "felon vote" mattered, what would it say about our society? Look at any society gone wrong and you will find that the innocent have been "felonized" to prevent them from voting. Maybe we are doing that. Picture felons as the proverbial canary in the mine. If the vote of a felon can upset the political balance of a nation as great as ours it will mean that we too have felonized the innocent and sold our souls to the felons sitting in high offices. So, I say we should fear more the society that disenfranchises its felons than the felons who vote. Therefore, borrowing a phrase from Johh F. Kennedy, I say Ich bin ein Feloner and urge you all to fear more the indifference of the majority before you spend millions turning out the felon from the voting booth.
Loren M. Lambert, © September 7, 2004
Friday, May 7, 2004
Goats And Universal Human Rights
The label "Unlawful Combatant" or any other label does not turn a human being into a goat. But that is what Attorney General John Ashcroft, Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, and the Bush Administration believe. If you are not granted basic universal human rights, no matter your national origin, race, religion, etc. and no matter the circumstances of your apprehension and containment, you may as well be a goat.
As a goat, the US Government and US military are free to dress you up in the latest fashion in hooded prison garb, take you on an endless Caribbean vacation, milk you dry, strip you naked, parade you around, inspect your genitalia, and maybe even have a goat roast. And who would ever know? Without the right to due process, the right to an attorney, and the right to have Red Cross visits, you may as well be a nameless, cloned goat--even if you were an innocent Quaker goat caught up in the fog of warring goat herdsmen.
If the despicable excuses for US soldiers had been aware that the human beings they were torturing in Iraq were, at the very least, being regularly visited by their attorneys and the Redcross, their criminal tendencies may have been curbed. More incidents like this will come unless that Bush Administration reverses its myopic view on human rights. This is true because as human beings and not goats, no matter our religion, color or country, without checks on our power, our self righteous arrogance will not prevent us from being corrupted and becoming tyrannical goat herdsmen in charge of what we'll view as goats--only fit for slaughter.
Hence, the abuse of the Iraqi prisoners is not just a failure of these sorry, disgusting soldiers, it is a failure of leadership all the way up to the top. We have lost the moral high ground. We will not recover. I fear this incident will lead to more deaths than any other incident in this war. It is time for our leadership to leave. It is time to for us to leave.
Loren M. Lambert © May 7, 2004
As a goat, the US Government and US military are free to dress you up in the latest fashion in hooded prison garb, take you on an endless Caribbean vacation, milk you dry, strip you naked, parade you around, inspect your genitalia, and maybe even have a goat roast. And who would ever know? Without the right to due process, the right to an attorney, and the right to have Red Cross visits, you may as well be a nameless, cloned goat--even if you were an innocent Quaker goat caught up in the fog of warring goat herdsmen.
If the despicable excuses for US soldiers had been aware that the human beings they were torturing in Iraq were, at the very least, being regularly visited by their attorneys and the Redcross, their criminal tendencies may have been curbed. More incidents like this will come unless that Bush Administration reverses its myopic view on human rights. This is true because as human beings and not goats, no matter our religion, color or country, without checks on our power, our self righteous arrogance will not prevent us from being corrupted and becoming tyrannical goat herdsmen in charge of what we'll view as goats--only fit for slaughter.
Hence, the abuse of the Iraqi prisoners is not just a failure of these sorry, disgusting soldiers, it is a failure of leadership all the way up to the top. We have lost the moral high ground. We will not recover. I fear this incident will lead to more deaths than any other incident in this war. It is time for our leadership to leave. It is time to for us to leave.
Loren M. Lambert © May 7, 2004
Monday, March 15, 2004
Hammering Heads
Dallin Oaks, former state Supreme Court Justice, once warned a group of new attorneys that until they became grey with worry and oblivious to influence they would tend to wield their Bar memberships like toddlers given a hammer and told to go forth and pound nails. Along with many other professionals, that's what we’re doing to Melissa Ann Rowland, we're pounding nails with the skill and temperance of five year olds.
Every doctor, lawyer, police officer and social worker has seen them. The "Ms. Rowlands" who can't responsibly manage the tangles in their own hair let alone another human being. And we've all said it–this person should not be allowed to have children–but not out loud. It's violent, morally tyrannical and an anathema to even suggest that we should control the reproductive potential (not sexual freedom) of our citizens. So what do we do?
We wring our hands and facilitate in a pre-conception pre-partum stupor. Emasculated by our sense of misguided morality, we brush off, we coddle, we cite, we medicate, we feebly recommend, and then we send off the "Ms. Rowlands" of the world to some other jurisdiction or medical facility hoping that others will bear the burden and incur the expense of early intervention. But it never happens and we end up with dead, discarded, and neglected babies. Only then do we jump into action. When the consequences are irreversible, we whip out our hammers and in full hammering fury file murder and neglect charges, shuttle live but often battered children into foster care, and vilify all who had contact with the putative mother including the society-made dollar-conscious health care providers.
In the end, isn't this a more repugnant, violent act? Isn't it more vile to sit mindlessly before the birth canal waiting to select the appropriate hammer based upon the outcome? We should not. It is likely that Ms. Rowland did not have the mental acuity to understand the implications of her pregnancy nor to understand the implications or necessity of the recommended C-section. She is not a murderer in the classic sense that she ever formed the criminal intent to kill; she is the embodiment of our inability to make hard decisions early instead of later on when death, abuse and neglect raise their menacing heads ever in need of pounding. We need to put away our hammers, take a deep breath and make the difficult decisions, not in the birthing room, but before conception dictates the inevitable.
Loren M. Lambert March 15, 2004
Every doctor, lawyer, police officer and social worker has seen them. The "Ms. Rowlands" who can't responsibly manage the tangles in their own hair let alone another human being. And we've all said it–this person should not be allowed to have children–but not out loud. It's violent, morally tyrannical and an anathema to even suggest that we should control the reproductive potential (not sexual freedom) of our citizens. So what do we do?
We wring our hands and facilitate in a pre-conception pre-partum stupor. Emasculated by our sense of misguided morality, we brush off, we coddle, we cite, we medicate, we feebly recommend, and then we send off the "Ms. Rowlands" of the world to some other jurisdiction or medical facility hoping that others will bear the burden and incur the expense of early intervention. But it never happens and we end up with dead, discarded, and neglected babies. Only then do we jump into action. When the consequences are irreversible, we whip out our hammers and in full hammering fury file murder and neglect charges, shuttle live but often battered children into foster care, and vilify all who had contact with the putative mother including the society-made dollar-conscious health care providers.
In the end, isn't this a more repugnant, violent act? Isn't it more vile to sit mindlessly before the birth canal waiting to select the appropriate hammer based upon the outcome? We should not. It is likely that Ms. Rowland did not have the mental acuity to understand the implications of her pregnancy nor to understand the implications or necessity of the recommended C-section. She is not a murderer in the classic sense that she ever formed the criminal intent to kill; she is the embodiment of our inability to make hard decisions early instead of later on when death, abuse and neglect raise their menacing heads ever in need of pounding. We need to put away our hammers, take a deep breath and make the difficult decisions, not in the birthing room, but before conception dictates the inevitable.
Loren M. Lambert March 15, 2004
Saturday, October 4, 2003
Philadelphia Eagles’ Meeting Transcript Proves Rush Linbaugh is Not a Racist or a Big Fat Idiot
Scott Cohen: "The offense stats have declined. Revenues are down. We need to bring in [inaudible]."
Joe Banner: "Well, we have about 5 million left for player acquisition. [inaudible] If we make the playoffs we'll net over 15 million."
Jeffrey Lurie: "I don’t want the most talented, damn it. I want diversity. I want underachievers. [Pacing noise] I want the interbred. I want the downtrodden. People like you [pause] and me!" [throat clearing]
Andy Reid: "People like you, Jeff? [Farting sound] Weren’t you a pasty uncoordinated nerd?"
Jeffrey Lurie: "Only because I wasn’t given a [bleeping] chance, damn it. [Loud bang, breaking glass] That’s what I want to do, give others a [bleeping] chance. Create opportunities. [Bleep, bleep] it. Give hope."
Andy Reid: "I can’t win games with hope, Jeff."
Jeffrey Lurie: "[Bleep] it. Who’s talking about winning. America was built on hope. I’m building America, Andy, you [bleeping] son of a [bleep]."
Joe Banner: "What about the board?" [Burp]
Jeffrey Lurie: "[Bleep] the board. I went from janitor to millionaire because I was given a chance. What’s your last choice for quarterback?"
[Inaudible, retching, logie hurling noises.]
Jeffrey Lurie: "Yeah, McNabb’s perfect. Call his [bleep bleep] up. Forget the rest. Jim, you can keep your defense but I want a complete overhaul of the offense and special teams. Scott, Brad, I don’t care where you have to go but I want female kickers, native American running-backs, pasty nerd janitor receivers, pigmies for our special teams, Asian centers, ex-con half-backs, Gulf-War-Vet guards, Afghani full-backs, and handicapped linemen."
Andy Reid: "Are you out of you [bleeping] mind. I mean [inaudible]. What the [inaudible]. You’re [inaudible, laughter]."
Jeffrey Lurie: "No, Andy. I'm a visionary--just like Leo. Get with the program or be replaced by the ‘water boy.’ You wait, this giving-a-chance-thing will be league wide in two years."
Joe Banner: "Well I guess we’ll save money on salaries."
Jeffrey Lurie: "Absolutely not. Let’s not be selfish. Max us out."
Brad Childres: "Holy [bleep] you can’t be serious." [Snorting, noise].
Jeffrey Lurie: "Damn right I am. Get to work. [Butt slapping] Oh, and one more thing. We need a player that can give aging, white, bloated wind-bags hope. [Pause] Hmmm. Got it. Joe, see if Rush Linbaugh’s interested in being our backup quarterback or maybe he could augment the cheerleading squad."
Loren M. Lambert
© October 4, 2003
Joe Banner: "Well, we have about 5 million left for player acquisition. [inaudible] If we make the playoffs we'll net over 15 million."
Jeffrey Lurie: "I don’t want the most talented, damn it. I want diversity. I want underachievers. [Pacing noise] I want the interbred. I want the downtrodden. People like you [pause] and me!" [throat clearing]
Andy Reid: "People like you, Jeff? [Farting sound] Weren’t you a pasty uncoordinated nerd?"
Jeffrey Lurie: "Only because I wasn’t given a [bleeping] chance, damn it. [Loud bang, breaking glass] That’s what I want to do, give others a [bleeping] chance. Create opportunities. [Bleep, bleep] it. Give hope."
Andy Reid: "I can’t win games with hope, Jeff."
Jeffrey Lurie: "[Bleep] it. Who’s talking about winning. America was built on hope. I’m building America, Andy, you [bleeping] son of a [bleep]."
Joe Banner: "What about the board?" [Burp]
Jeffrey Lurie: "[Bleep] the board. I went from janitor to millionaire because I was given a chance. What’s your last choice for quarterback?"
[Inaudible, retching, logie hurling noises.]
Jeffrey Lurie: "Yeah, McNabb’s perfect. Call his [bleep bleep] up. Forget the rest. Jim, you can keep your defense but I want a complete overhaul of the offense and special teams. Scott, Brad, I don’t care where you have to go but I want female kickers, native American running-backs, pasty nerd janitor receivers, pigmies for our special teams, Asian centers, ex-con half-backs, Gulf-War-Vet guards, Afghani full-backs, and handicapped linemen."
Andy Reid: "Are you out of you [bleeping] mind. I mean [inaudible]. What the [inaudible]. You’re [inaudible, laughter]."
Jeffrey Lurie: "No, Andy. I'm a visionary--just like Leo. Get with the program or be replaced by the ‘water boy.’ You wait, this giving-a-chance-thing will be league wide in two years."
Joe Banner: "Well I guess we’ll save money on salaries."
Jeffrey Lurie: "Absolutely not. Let’s not be selfish. Max us out."
Brad Childres: "Holy [bleep] you can’t be serious." [Snorting, noise].
Jeffrey Lurie: "Damn right I am. Get to work. [Butt slapping] Oh, and one more thing. We need a player that can give aging, white, bloated wind-bags hope. [Pause] Hmmm. Got it. Joe, see if Rush Linbaugh’s interested in being our backup quarterback or maybe he could augment the cheerleading squad."
Loren M. Lambert
© October 4, 2003
Saturday, September 13, 2003
Confessions of a Torturer
I should be silent. I should fear the approbation I will pull down upon my head by my confession. But silence is no longer an option. Silence only emboldens the despots that fund, encourage and order torture as a state policy. Though I must accept responsibility for my own choice to bow to their authority, until we reform the institutions of torture, though I and others may leave the torturers’ ranks, the evil will continue. They taught me deception to capture my prey and to then inflict confinement, isolation, sustenance deprivation, chemical poisoning and finally impalement. How did they corrupt my heart, ensuring years of service and blind acquiescence to their orders? They employed the mother of all extortions: my children.
Every fall it starts. While settling in for four months of football, one of them will appear in the rec room, hovering over my Laz-Z-Boy, demanding help to locate, capture, kill then display numerous six-legged creatures as an offering to their teacher. Goaded on by the fear they will fail grade school and never leave home, I rise from my throne barking out orders. Get the net! Man the jars! Retrieve the cotton balls! Bring the alcohol! When all is fetched, we’re off to the swamp park.
Soon we’re catching bugs. I’m about to toss an alcohol-soaked-cotton ball in the first bug jar when one bug turns her brown, moist eyes on me. Another deftly rolls on his back and gently waves his little multi-jointed, exoskeletal legs and antennae imitating our cuddly Pit Bull, Rascal. While another, flying up and down in the jar, motions to me, simpering, "Please. I have children." That’s it. I can’t do it. I can’t kill such resourceful creatures. Then the vision of kids who never leave home again pops into my mind.
Maybe, I suggest, my son can turn in live specimens. So, with Noah as our inspiration, we try packing them all live into our two jars. Surely if two of every animal on earth can coexist on a cramped Ark for 40 days, we can get 12 different bugs into our jars. But I’m wrong. The bugs don’t cooperate. As a new one’s placed in, another escapes. A frisky Praying Mantis starts taste testing his cell mates. We have no choice--some of the bugs must die so others may live. But which? I decide to discriminate: biting, common and ugly bugs get the death penalty; cute, colorful, fascinating bugs get life-behind bars with the possibility of parole. Explaining this to my nine-year-old son, he pulls himself up to his full 48 inches. Tenting his hands before him and boring into me with his eyes he states, "Many who live deserve death, and many who die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Do not be so eager to deal out death and judgment."
Hmmm. The words sear my soul like Sting biting into Shelob’s bloated abdomen. So I count to ten. While sparing the ladybugs, butterflies and praying mantis, I cotton-ball the flies, mosquitoes, wasps and beetles. Instantly they begin to twitch, then slowly die. I feel terrible. Hence this confession and epiphany: why not combine science and art? Let the kids catch them, photograph or draw them, and then set Willie free. Is this too much to ask? No, I plead, please, for the love of Albert Schweitzer, don’t make me torture again next fall--in bug collecting merge the disciplines of art and science!
Loren M. Lambert September 13, 2003
Every fall it starts. While settling in for four months of football, one of them will appear in the rec room, hovering over my Laz-Z-Boy, demanding help to locate, capture, kill then display numerous six-legged creatures as an offering to their teacher. Goaded on by the fear they will fail grade school and never leave home, I rise from my throne barking out orders. Get the net! Man the jars! Retrieve the cotton balls! Bring the alcohol! When all is fetched, we’re off to the swamp park.
Soon we’re catching bugs. I’m about to toss an alcohol-soaked-cotton ball in the first bug jar when one bug turns her brown, moist eyes on me. Another deftly rolls on his back and gently waves his little multi-jointed, exoskeletal legs and antennae imitating our cuddly Pit Bull, Rascal. While another, flying up and down in the jar, motions to me, simpering, "Please. I have children." That’s it. I can’t do it. I can’t kill such resourceful creatures. Then the vision of kids who never leave home again pops into my mind.
Maybe, I suggest, my son can turn in live specimens. So, with Noah as our inspiration, we try packing them all live into our two jars. Surely if two of every animal on earth can coexist on a cramped Ark for 40 days, we can get 12 different bugs into our jars. But I’m wrong. The bugs don’t cooperate. As a new one’s placed in, another escapes. A frisky Praying Mantis starts taste testing his cell mates. We have no choice--some of the bugs must die so others may live. But which? I decide to discriminate: biting, common and ugly bugs get the death penalty; cute, colorful, fascinating bugs get life-behind bars with the possibility of parole. Explaining this to my nine-year-old son, he pulls himself up to his full 48 inches. Tenting his hands before him and boring into me with his eyes he states, "Many who live deserve death, and many who die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Do not be so eager to deal out death and judgment."
Hmmm. The words sear my soul like Sting biting into Shelob’s bloated abdomen. So I count to ten. While sparing the ladybugs, butterflies and praying mantis, I cotton-ball the flies, mosquitoes, wasps and beetles. Instantly they begin to twitch, then slowly die. I feel terrible. Hence this confession and epiphany: why not combine science and art? Let the kids catch them, photograph or draw them, and then set Willie free. Is this too much to ask? No, I plead, please, for the love of Albert Schweitzer, don’t make me torture again next fall--in bug collecting merge the disciplines of art and science!
Loren M. Lambert September 13, 2003
Sunday, September 7, 2003
Utah, Speed-Bump Utopia!
I despise speed bumps. I would bet good money that there’s a correlation between their burgeoning numbers and Utah’s birthrate. You see, instead of batting our speeding teens up the side of the head, we build speed bumps and then slip the lead foots the keys to the Hummer. There are probably five speed bumps to every Utah teen and three times as much cursing as we all eerk, squeak, squeak our merry spasmodic way through the trailer park. However, after watching my grandma waddle across the street from her condo the other day with only a one-finger salute and a speed bump between her and the teens she was taunting, I have softened up a bit. I mean, hey, such a heartening display of geriatric rage should be admired, if not encouraged.
Moreover, speed bumps are not without precedent. Look at adolescent acne--speed bumps to underage sex. Then there’s wrinkles, baldness, prolific coarse-and-gray ear, nose, #@*!$ and back hair--speed bumps to overage sex. And finally, marriage--speed bump to any sex.
No, we should not forsake nature nor humanity's creation of risk reducing remedies but improve upon them. For instance, to curb birthrates, don’t just extend the virtues of marriage to just gays--let poodles, mosquitoes and guppies marry. Similarly, we could create a bra with multiple rows and layers of fake breasts and give all adolescents hair-growth hormones so their wandering fingers, searching for the craggy peaks of the Misty Mountains or heading towards the forbidden forests of Fangorn, get lost in the foothills or tangled in a mass of bristling shrubbery.
We could require tobacco companies to lace cigarette filters with glass shards as speed bumps to nicotine addiction. We could force breweries to design containers so that intoxicating spirits seep out in infuriating droplets--speed bumps to alcoholism. And while we’re at it, let’s engineer all of our roads so that if a driver dares exceed the speed limit, he and his vehicle will be pummeled into molecular oblivion. If we do these things, birthrates will drop, our driving ranks will mature and mellow, and then we’ll be safe to eliminate all the speed bumps. Yeah, baby--move backwards to go forward.
Let’s do it! All I ask on our way to speed-bump utopia is that we impose a speed-bump tax to replace my brakes and adjust the suspension on my, uh, well, car.
Loren M. Lambert
September 7, 2003
Moreover, speed bumps are not without precedent. Look at adolescent acne--speed bumps to underage sex. Then there’s wrinkles, baldness, prolific coarse-and-gray ear, nose, #@*!$ and back hair--speed bumps to overage sex. And finally, marriage--speed bump to any sex.
No, we should not forsake nature nor humanity's creation of risk reducing remedies but improve upon them. For instance, to curb birthrates, don’t just extend the virtues of marriage to just gays--let poodles, mosquitoes and guppies marry. Similarly, we could create a bra with multiple rows and layers of fake breasts and give all adolescents hair-growth hormones so their wandering fingers, searching for the craggy peaks of the Misty Mountains or heading towards the forbidden forests of Fangorn, get lost in the foothills or tangled in a mass of bristling shrubbery.
We could require tobacco companies to lace cigarette filters with glass shards as speed bumps to nicotine addiction. We could force breweries to design containers so that intoxicating spirits seep out in infuriating droplets--speed bumps to alcoholism. And while we’re at it, let’s engineer all of our roads so that if a driver dares exceed the speed limit, he and his vehicle will be pummeled into molecular oblivion. If we do these things, birthrates will drop, our driving ranks will mature and mellow, and then we’ll be safe to eliminate all the speed bumps. Yeah, baby--move backwards to go forward.
Let’s do it! All I ask on our way to speed-bump utopia is that we impose a speed-bump tax to replace my brakes and adjust the suspension on my, uh, well, car.
Loren M. Lambert
September 7, 2003
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