Feel free to publish, post, or pass on Your Weekly Politickle by F.R. Duplantier:

SUPREME INDIFFERENCE
Should our judges be judged by their gender,
Or the justness of verdicts they render?
Should we reckon their race,
Or their ken in a case
As a strict Constitution defender?

From the archive:

SUPREME IRONY
From first principles he won’t budge.
Constitutionally he won’t fudge.
But with Durbin and Biden
And their buddies decidin’,
He’s not “fit” to become a judge.
(2005)

PRYOR RESTRAINT
“Judicial nominee Pryor
May appeal to authority higher
And display legal laurels
And superior morals,
But venality’s what we desire.”
(2003)

COURT DISASTER
How the judges would snicker and snort
And delight in making sport
Of American troops,
Individuals, and groups
In an international court!
(2002)

JUDICIAL RESTRAINT
It’s a perfectly valid complaint:
An activist judge is no saint.
So, give him a jacket
That ties in the back; it
Will force him to show some restraint.
(1998)

Last week’s limerick:

IT’S THE LAW!
Seatbelt on your easy chair,
Life vest in the tub to wear,
Steel-toed bedroom slippers,
Velcro trouser zippers,
Flame-retardant underwear.

For more homeschool goodies, click on the image above.

Homeschoolers have come a long way in the last 10 years. Once greeted with surprise, suspicion, or outright indignation when they revealed their guilty secret, today they may encounter a friendly curiosity, a certain nonchalance even. Instead of “Is that legal?” or “Can you do that?” they’re now at least as likely to hear, “Oh, I have a neighbor who homeschools. Her children are so smart, and so well-mannered!” The pariahs have become paragons. That’s because everyone in America now knows at least one family that homeschools, and has seen the results. The failure of the public schools has also become increasingly obvious, and no one doubts any longer that parents can do a better job. – “Homeschoolers: Pariahs to Paragons,” F.R. Duplantier, 1998

Homeschool graduate #3

USA Today reports that homeschooling remains a growing movement. It’s one my wife, Evann, and I have contributed to substantially, having homeschooled all six of our children, beginning with the eldest in 1992. Our third daughter, Isabel, has just completed high school and will soon be entering the workforce, possibly as a ballet instructor. Three down, three to go. Evann and I have also promoted the movement avidly, in print and broadcast media, online with blogs and web shops, and through curricula and educational aids we’ve developed ourselves. It’s been a big investment of time, talent, and treasure — one that’s paid big spiritual dividends for our kids, and for their parents.

When one of my daughters complained recently about the drudgery of her first job, I knew exactly how she felt.

When I was young, I couldn’t wait to get out of school. I hated sitting in those stupid desks all day long, trying to avoid the harassment of classmates and teachers. I couldn’t wait to get out into the real world.

At long last, I graduated and landed a job. I reported at 8:30 sharp and was shown to my post — a stupid desk I would have to sit in all day, trying to avoid the harassment of coworkers and bosses. Oh, my God, I can’t do this! I thought. Not for the rest of my life!

The tedium was unbearable, the monotony mind-numbing. If I could just make it through one day, maybe things would get better. I looked up at the clock. It was 8:35.

Evidence appears to be mounting that the Obama administration has systematically targeted for closing Chrysler dealers who contributed to Repubicans. – Mark Tapscott, Washington Examiner

With their dealerships taken away from them, they’ll be less likely to contribute their own money to Republicans in 2010 and 2012. Meanwhile, Obama’s stimulus money (our tax dollars) will be going to his cronies.

My father, brother, and son are named Crozet (pronounced: cro ZAY). Crozet was the maiden name of my father’s paternal grandmother. There’s a town in Virginia named Crozet, a town in France, and an island chain in the Indian Ocean south of Madagascar. The town in Virginia is named after one of our ancestors, Claudius Crozet, who built railroads, taught at West Point, and (to our family’s everlasting shame) invented the blackboard.

A croze (derived from the French word for cross) is the notch at the top and bottom of a wine barrel stave, and the tool used for making it. A crozet is, presumably, a small such notch or tool. (Claudius’ father was a wholesale wine merchant.) I recently discovered that crozet is also a kind of pasta.

Note to movie fans: A wine barrel, even empty, is extraordinarily heavy. (I know. I make my own wine and have two barrels on a shelf in my garage. Getting them up there by myself was no mean feat.) Arnold Schwarzenegger might be able to lift one over his head, but no normal man could; and even Arnie could not lift a full one. Bear that in mind the next time you watch a Zorro movie and see actors tossing them at each other like beach balls.

I want to be a liberal, because then everyone will like me. My family will start talking to me again. . . . – “I Want to Be a Liberal,” Nancy Morgan

I know the feeling. Of course, I was a liberal once (in my teens), and even a radical for a brief period, but I came to my senses — only to discover that everyone else had gone mad in the meantime.

Young men who fought in Vietnam returned home without fanfare — no confetti, no ticker tape parades, no praise for their sacrifices. The homefront had been anything but supportive, and it wasn’t until 1979 that the idea of a Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington was conceived by Jan Scruggs, who had served as an infantry corporal in Vietnam from 1969 to 1970. – “Moving Wall,” Peggy Mengis, 1988

A replica of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial began traveling the United States in 1984. When it showed up four years later at Loyola University in New Orleans, where my mother-in-law, Joan Gaulene, was the director of university relations, I commissioned my mother, Peggy Mengis (Duplantier), to write an article about the exhibit.

Why Pay for Politickles?

You can get them for free, so why pay for them? It’s hard to argue with that logic. Paying for Politickles really doesn’t make much sense. But does everything have to make sense? Don’t you get the urge every once in a while to do something irrational? Maybe this is one of those times.

If you’re feeling kind of crazy and have an impulse to pay for something that’s free, or you just want to show solidarity with the nutcases who’ve already contributed, don’t stifle yourself. Act now! Click the DONATE button top right. It may be the most frivolous thing you do all year.

Feel free to publish, post, or pass on Your Weekly Politickle by F.R. Duplantier:

IT’S THE LAW!
Seatbelt on your easy chair,
Life vest in the tub to wear,
Steel-toed bedroom slippers,
Velcro trouser zippers,
Flame-retardant underwear.

From the archive:

ZERO RISK?
I anticipate danger ahead
And foresee myself injured or dead
– From falling, perchance,
While putting on pants,
So I’d better not get out bed.
(1998)

Last week’s limerick:

CLICK IT OR TICKET
“I’m afraid I must take you downtown,”
The policeman announced with a frown.
Such a fate I was dealt
For not wearing a belt –
Which was why my new trousers fell down.

For all of us who work and play in politics — or its journalistic and/or entertainment divisions — there is always a real danger of burn-out; I burned out so bad once that I didn’t write a word of opinion, on politics or anything else, for almost the entire decade of the 1990′s. What pushed me to the edge of sanity, distorted my vision, and hamstrung my heart was a lack of balance and a total loss of perspective; everything was urgent, everything was life-threatening, every odd turn of fate or illogical outcome was a conspiracy, and nothing was lightweight, fun, or enjoyable anymore. – Erik Jay, American-Partisan.com, 2000

Above is an excerpt from my friend Erik Jay’s review of Politickles: Limericks Lampooning the Lunatic Left. When I first discovered Erik in the mid-1980s, he was the editor of an idiosyncratic humor magazine called Pedantic Monthly, which showcased his brilliant wit and mischievous literary skills. Sensing that we were sympatico, I sent him some satiric pieces of my own (e.g., “A Humble Suggestion” &  “Lite Motif”) and soon had the pleasure of rereading them in the pages of PM. Early in 1989 I was promoted from managing editor to editor at The New American and asked Erik to fill the slot I’d vacated. We made a great team, rapidly improving the look and content of the magazine, reducing expenses by $250,000 in the first year, and having a lot of fun in the process (at least initially).

Erik and I were well-versed in conspiracy theory (the magazine’s focus), but we often joked that anyone who didn’t believe in conspiracies would soon change his mind after working for The New American — not because of the persuasive power of our articles, but because the office was full of them. A significant number of the staff members believed so strongly in conspiracy that they made a practice of it, constantly engaging in furtive efforts to advance themselves and bring others down — which they succeeded in doing to Erik (and several competent co-workers) less than a year after his arrival, and to me and another capable colleague a year later.

It’s true, as Erik observes above, that an obsession with conspiracy can drive a person mad; even more maddening, however, is to be the victim of one.