The Man on the Road

This one isn't funny.

Homelessness isn't funny. Down-on-your-luck isn't funny. Teaching fear and loathing to children isn't funny either.

Off to our right stood a man.

He wore a ratty old coat, and a baseball cap that had seen better days. His boots were scuffed and muddy. His pants had holes through both knees. They didn't fit particularly well either.

Long, stringy hair stuck out from under the hat. It had been brown once upon a time. Now it was flecked with gray, tangled, unkempt.

I didn't know the last time he'd shaved. Or washed. Probably he didn't know either.

We weren't close enough to smell him. If we had been, he would have smelled like - what? A dumpster? A ditch? An overpass? A urine-soaked park bench?

His face was the weathered color of autumn cabbage and had crags deep enough to plant corn.

He held a cardboard sign in front of him. It read, "U.S. vet. Any help is appreciated. God bless."

I looked at him for a few moments, wondering if I should say anything to the two boys in the back seat. One of them beat me to it.

"Don't give him any money," said my son's friend. "He's just a stupid man who wants drugs."

We were on our way to a 3rd-grade soccer game, the boys and I. We were waiting at a traffic light just off the interstate in a suburb of Des Moines. The man stood at the bottom of the exit ramp.

"What?" I said.

The same boy answered. "My dad says he's just a stupid man who wants money so he can buy drugs."

None of the other drivers at the light were looking at the man. In fact, they were making an exaggerated effort not to - gripping the wheel with both hands, staring straight ahead, face rigid.

I wasn't sure what to say.

So I dipped my toe in the water carefully. I'm not sure it's fair to call him stupid, I explained. We don't know what his circumstances are. Maybe he lost his home. Maybe he lost his job. Maybe he lost his family.

Nope, my son's friend insisted. He wants drugs. He's dumb and he wants drugs and he's dangerous.

That's unfair, I tried again. We don't know anything about this man. He's probably hungry. He's probably thirsty. Look at him. If he had $5 he'd spend it on a sandwich, not a pinch of marijuana.

"My dad says someone like that is stupid," the boy said stubbornly.

I let it go. Who wants to argue with an 8-year old boy?

The light changed and the traffic moved ahead. Nobody rolled down a window and held out a dollar bill. Nobody gave him a candy bar. Nobody gave him an apple. Nobody gave him anything.

Not even a friendly wave.

Neither did I, now that I think about it.

I looked back as I drove away.

The man looked so sad.

Door Ding Ding-A-Lings

I don't ask much when I drop off my kids at school. The following situations are unacceptable: 1. Open gunfire on the sidewalk between renegade teachers. 2. Signs that read, "All parents will be strip-searched before entering building." 3. Other signs that read, "It is strongly recommended that you get a rabies shot when you leave this place." 4. Fourth graders in a booth advertising nipple piercings. 5. The principal waving goodbye to her parole officer. 6. Random hugs from a troupe of clowns and mimes.

And, of course, door dings.

It's a close call between the clowns and mimes and the door dings.

Up until a few months ago I didn't worry about door dings because I drove a Saturn. It was plastic and aluminum and nearly indestructible, plus at 215,000 miles I could have traded it straight-up for a three-ringed binder and a packet of #2 pencils and come out ahead on the deal.

Now, however, I drive a 2006 Toyota Corolla and I worry more. I worry because of cars like the silver Taurus that pulled in next to me this morning in the school parking lot. The boy in the back, probably 10 years old or so, quickly shot his door open.

Wham! It smashed into the side of my car, driver's side rear door.

I got out to have a look. And there it was, a good ol' ding with a scratch to boot. I looked at the boy reproachfully as he and his mother approached to get a closer look. I rubbed on the scratch with my thumb and waited for them to say something.

And she did. She said, "Well, that's not as bad as people usually give me."

I looked up in astonishment as they turned to walk toward the school entrance. That was it. No "Sorry about that, my son has an inner ear infection and his coordination is way off." No "We apologize, we just heard on the radio that our house was on fire." No "Oops, I was distracted because my mom was telling me that she's entering alcohol rehab this afternoon."

Nothing. Just a view of their backsides as they walked into the school.

My kids and I followed soon after. I was in a grouchy mood, and I railed against bad children, and worse parents, and how with an upbringing like that there was no doubt in my mind that the kid would end up no good. By the time we got to their classrooms, I had that kid wallowing in the seedy underbelly of society - behind bars, dealing meth, pimping, robbing girl scouts, beating up old ladies, etc. That kid, I was convinced, was Charles Manson, Jeffrey Dahmer and the Unabomber all rolled into one foul package.

My son went down the hallway to put his backpack away while I got my daughter settled in. When he came back he said, "Dad, I saw that kid who hit your car. He told me to tell you that he was really sorry."

Oh.

I guess I overreacted. And I guess that restored my faith in the basic goodness of people.

But I still have that door ding. And I still hate clowns and mimes.

Reading McCain's mind

Thanks to some fantastic new technology, we were able to actually read John McCain's mind backstage as he listened to and watched Sarah Palin's speech last night.

The following are some samples:

"All right...hmmm...what's on TV tonight? ...Golden Girls - that's a fun show...hmmm...hey, M*A*S*H - that Hotlips was quite a tasty little number, wasn't she?...Seinfeld? Never heard of it...well, wait a minute...what's this? What's all this commotion? Look at all those people doing...Oh! Oh! Now I remember!"

"Wow! They really like that lady speaking. I wish I knew who she was. Haven't I met her somewhere before?"

"My lord, is she hot."

"Alaska? She's from Alaska? I thought the sheet said Arizona!"

"I wonder why she wears her hair like that. She looks like a school teacher. Or a librarian. Or a school librarian."

"...must...take...nap...zzz...zzz."

"Please mention that I was a prisoner of war. Please mention that I was a prisoner of war. Please mention that I was a prisoner of war. Please mention that I was a prisoner of war. YES! YES! YES!"

"My lord, is she hot."

"Boy, oh boy, is she taking shots at Barack Obama. That's really funny. I mean, she is really giving Barack Obama some sharp zings. Ha Ha!...Ha Ha!...wait a minute. I can't remember. Who the heck is Barack Obama?"

"This is really cutting into my Wheel of Fortune time."

"I love when the crowd screams 'USA! USA! USA!' at the top of their lungs during every break in her speech. That means Republicans are really patriotic. And look at that lady in the front row with the funny red, white and blue hat. That means Republicans are really patriotic. And I love how they just hauled away a protester just now. That means Republicans are really patriotic. God, I love being patriotic."

"Aw, man...she's a hunter? That's not good. I was always afraid Dick Cheney was going to blast me in the face."

"Note to self: move her desk into the Oval Office, right next to mine. Or maybe we could share desks. And share chairs. And brush each other's hair."

"Why do they keep showing Cindy so much on the television? Hey...she's here? Right here in St. Paul? Who's taking care of our houses?"

"Holy cow, this Palin chick's got a lot of kids! Let's see...one, two, three, four...ahhh...ahhh...must...take...nap...zzz...zzz."

"Has anyone got a blanket? I'm way chilly here."

"Damn straight I was a prisoner of war."

"Boy, her daughter is a little chunky...What? What the...? She's pregnant? Pregnant? First I've heard of it! Why didn't anybody tell me?"

"I wonder who the father is. I bet it's Edwards."

"I don't know why I ate that onion blossom for dinner. It's given me the winds something awful."

"My lord, is she hot."

"Taxes, values, family, blah, blah, blah. Why isn't she saying anything more about me being a prisoner of war? Doesn't she know I was a prisoner of war? Not everybody is a prisoner of war, you know. That guy over there wasn't a prisoner of war. And that guy over there wasn't a prisoner of war. Hey, you...usher...let me tell you about me being a prisoner of war."

"I hope there aren't any gays in her family."

"They really cheered when she mentioned God just now. Someone find my speechwriter and make sure he puts the word God in my speech. At least half a dozen times. No...make that a clean dozen."

"When I go out on stage when she's done am I allowed to hug her? I really want to hug her. I really want to...no. That would be creepy. Really creepy...I don't care. I'm totally going to hug her."

"My bottom really itches. It itches bad. Dang onion blossom. Is anyone looking at me? Anyone? Can I move in for a quick scratch?...I'm doing it...there...oh yeah...all better."

"That can't be right. She's been governor for how long? How long?"

"I wonder where she lives in Arizona?"

"Hey...where is that Lawrence Welk music coming from? Now that's a beat I can get down to!"

"At least she hasn't said...NO! NO! Why did she mention George Bush? Abort! Abort!"

"I have bunions older than her."

"Boy I REALLY hope she doesn't have any gays in the family. That would be awkward. Well, if she does, I'll just tell people the guy fell off the beam because his high school refused to teach creationism in science class. That's why he turned gay. They'll buy it."

"Why couldn't we have our convention at an outdoor stadium like that other guy did?...What was his name again?"

"I wonder why they call that fella an 'African-American.' I always learned it as 'colored.'"

"Troop surge...troop surge...troop surge...troop surge...troop surge...Maybe I can make a song out of it. What rhymes with troop surge? Loop dirge? Croup urge? Group merge? Soup barge? I'll sing it to the tune of 'Climb Every Mountain.'"

"My lord, she's hot."

"Thank goodness she hasn't mentioned that other war that's not going very well. Let's see, where was that war again? Pakistan? Turkmenistan? Uzbekistan? Ah...it probably doesn't matter."

"When is she going to be done? I'm feeling...I'm feeling...ahh...ahhh...zzz..zzz."

President Bush at the Olympics

First of all, I need to say something about President Bush's interview with Bob Costas in Beijing just after the Opening Ceremonies. Bob Costas has won a zillion Emmys, he's smart, well-spoken, and has full command of the English language. He's imperturbable, always efficiently coiffed, and has an IQ about 80 points higher than Bush.

Bush is...well, he's Bush. And I always react with a certain amount of glee when I see him in an unscripted situation: no teleprompters to read off of, no handlers whispering lines in his ear. It's just fantastic. I always expect him to come off like Billy Bob Thornton in "Sling Blade."

He didn't disappoint.

My second favorite moment was when he was talking about the President of Russia, and blatantly mispronounced his name. Now, I know Medvedev isn't a softball like Smith or Jones, but it's not impossible either. I tried it myself and got the hang of it after a try or two. I don't think it's asking too much for the President of the United States to know how to say the names of important people.

My single favorite moment was when Costas was asking Bush about a number of the ills facing our country - the mortgage crisis, skyrocketing national debt, low consumer confidence, the high price of food, etc. Bush interrupted to say that he didn't think America had those kinds of problems. Then he said things would be a whole lot better if China had more churches.

Costas had no idea how to respond. As soon as he could, he took it to a commercial break.

Priceless.

In honor of our President, here is my actual running diary of his activities during the Opening Ceremonies. The cameras only showed him a handful of times, unfortunately.

0:24 Bush makes his entrance into the stadium, dressed rather dapper in a sharp gray suit and a red tie. He shuffles down the stadium steps with Laura hanging onto his right arm. Amazingly, no one seems to notice him. Or cares to notice him. Not a single head turns as he passes by. He shakes hands with his next-door seat mates, a pleasant looking Chinese couple. Then he shakes hands with a bald guy in front of him who already seems sweaty. They sit down. A tall man suddenly comes into the picture. He's so tall we can't see his head on the screen. All we do know for sure is that he's standing with his crotch about three inches from Laura's face. Laura, looking uncomfortable, decides that she'd rather crane her neck back 90 degrees to look at his face rather than stare directly into his crotch. Meanwhile, Bob Costas, who can't think of anything interesting to say about W, talks about how smart W's father was.

0:41 A huge crowd of children walks onto the floor of the stadium, carrying the flag of China. The camera shifts to Bush, who is leaning across Laura to talk to Vladimir Putin. I can't read their lips very accurately, but I think it went something like this:
Bush: "Vlad, how's it hanging?"
Putin: "Fine. You know we invaded Georgia today."
Bush: "You did?"
Putin: "Yep."
Bush: "Well, alrighty then. Thank god South Carolina's OK."

1:48 The athletes of Turkmenistan march in, all dressed vaguely like Fidel Castro. Bush is shown watching intently through binoculars. This shows you what a huge sports fan Bush is. Clinton would have been scoping out a cute Chinese usher through his binoculars.

2:19 The India contingent strolls by. Meanwhile, Bush couldn't look more bored. He's taken off his suit coat and is sitting practically spread-eagled in his chair. He glares at his watch. Laura, who doesn't appear to be sitting spread-eagled, is staring blankly into space and checks her watch as soon as she sees her husband check his.

2:32 A small group of Iraqis marches in. The crowd gives them an enormous cheer. Bush gives them polite applause, clapping like his palms hurt. Laura, on the other hand, claps with wild, giddy enthusiasm, a strange grin on her face, like someone's tickling her from behind. As soon as W stops clapping, she stops clapping.

2:42 Suriname is in now. Pan to Bush, who looks slightly confused. Where's Suriname? Laura's hands are hidden behind the head of the woman sitting in front of her. She could be knitting for all I know.

2:55 Now it's Puerto Rico's turn. Bush is back to the binoculars. Does he ever let Laura take a turn with the binoculars? Everone around them in the stands is fanning themselves, trying to stay cool in the Beijing heat. Not the Bushes. And does W ever sit with his legs together? Good grief, his knees are sticking out so far he's practically tripping everyone going past him on the steps.

3:01 Here come the Americans! Love the outfits - dark blue blazers with sharp white hats. One of the Lost Boys of Sudan, Lopez Lomong, is the flag bearer. An inspired choice. The symbolism, of course, is poignant. The Bush administration has done next to nothing about the horrors of Darfur other than mouth a few half-hearted condemnations. Seeing the Americans, Bush quickly leaps to his feet, grabbing his jacket and buttoning it up. Because he knows the cameras are on him now for sure, he grabs a small American flag from somewhere and begins shaking it with his right hand, like he's a little boy watching a Memorial Day parade in Galena.

3:05 The camera catches Bush, still standing and shaking his flag, cackling like someone just told him a joke. No one else appears to be laughing. Certainly not Laura, who doesn't appear to have said anything all night long.

3:10 Thailand is marching in now. The Parade of Nations is almost over, thank goodness. Bush is clearly near the end of his rope. He's back to sitting with his knees flung out to the sides. What's with that position? Has he just had hernia surgery? He's still got the little U.S. flag in his hand, except now he's banging it against his right thigh in utter boredom and glaring straight ahead, the furrows in his forehead so deep you could plant corn.

That's it. I'm looking forward to seeing Bush at the World Series.

Random Olympic musings

Some random thoughts about the 2008 Summer Olympic Games:

I see where the great swimmer Michael Phelps consumes in the neighborhood of 12,000 calories per day. That may be as impressive as anything he's done in the pool. Even if you've got a conveyer belt of fried egg sandwiches and pop tarts and plates of pure lard rolling toward your mouth, you've got to work really hard to eat 12,000 calories. All is know is that if I'm in the bathroom when Michael Phelps comes in to take care of business, I head the other way, fast, and give him lots of room.

The Chinese women gymnasts are all supposed to be at least 16 years of age, although rumors continue to swirl that some of them are much younger. I'm not saying the Chinese are lying, but I have an open jar of grape jelly in the refrigerator that's older than some of those girls.

I would last no longer than five minutes playing beach volleyball before either: A) Pitching forward face-first into the sand from exhaustion and barfing, or B) Taking a spike off my forehead that lays me out cold.

My daughter Grace and I watched 10 minutes of dressage the other day. Dressage is when the rider dresses up like he's a butler at a Beverly Hills mansion, top hat and all, and bounces up and down on the back of a horse that's prancing around like its feet hurt. They don't race, they don't jump. They just bounce and prance. And bounce and prance. Dressage has to be the most boring Olympic event ever invented. That's 10 minutes of my life that I'll never get back.

You know what would liven up the pistol event? Someone standing behind the shooter and randomly yelling "Hey!" as they're about to squeeze off a round.

Trampoline is an Olympic event? Really? Did any of us know this? Can Bounce House be far behind?

It was mentioned that Tug of War was an Olympic event from 1900 to 1920. Is it too much to ask that they bring this back? And the losers are forced to watch an entire day of dressage.

Why do I get the feeling that the anchors on the Tug of War teams would be female softball players?

This is my brilliant idea to spice up the last day of the Olympics: One of the traditions of Boxing Day in the British Commonwealth was that on the day after Christmas the masters and servants would change places. For that day the lord of the manor would do the gardening, or the cooking, or the cleaning, or whatever. Why can't we do this in the Olympics? On the final day, all the athletes switch sports. Why couldn't this work? Who wouldn't want to see Michael Phelps on the pommel horse? Or Kobe Bryant in a whitewater kayak? Or Serena Williams on the 10-meter diving platform? It would be fantastic. Let's take the weightlifters and throw them in the pool and see if they can swim. Let's make the archers try to pole vault. People would pay good money to see this, I'm telling you.

I caught just a little of the synchronized diving. I'm kind of embarrassed to admit this, but (whispering here) I kind of enjoyed it.

More thoughts on a later post. Plus a running diary of George Bush at the Opening Ceremonies.

I saw on the news today some video footage of American Olympic cyclists arriving in Beijing, China for the Summer Games.

The athletes looked like world class athletes should look - tall, sleek, strong, moving with a fluid grace through the airport terminal.

They looked fine. Except for the masks.

All of them - at least all of them that I could see - were wearing identical masks. Big black masks that covered their faces from just below their eyes to below their chins, with enormous black straps wrapped clear around their heads.

The group reminded me of some sort of crazed Michael Jackson convention gone bad.

The reason for the masks, of course, was as protection against the air of Beijing, the quality of which, if the reports are to be believed, is a cross between the noxious fumes from an active volcano and the stench from your grandfather's feet after he's mowed the yard on a 90-degree day while wearing rabbit fur boots and then waded barefoot through a pond of liquid manure.

The media, of course, have gotten quite excited about the whole thing. Reporters, barely concealing their glee, have practically announced that they expect most American athletes to keel over and begin retching, right there on the track, or the pool, or the parallel bars, after one deep breath. Or two. Or three at the most.

The cyclists apparently thought that if they didn't strap on their World War I gas masks, well, they would have blood pouring out their noses and eyes in a matter of minutes. Never mind that they'd just stepped off the plane. Never mind that they were still inside the airport. Never mind that they looked like doofuses.

Careful scrutiny revealed that none of the Chinese watching the mummified athletes pass by were wearing enormous black masks with enormous black straps. And none of them, as far as I could tell, had blood pouring out their noses and eyes.

Maybe I wasn't watching closely enough.

Anyway, I don't care. I don't care if Beijing's air is worse than an Iowa hog confinement. I don't care if you have to polish your teeth with sandpaper to get the grit off. I don't care if there's so much poison and radiation in the air that breathing through your mouth lights your hair on fire.

It's just rude to walk into someone else's country and act like you're Howie Mandel at a handshaking convention.

If I'm in your house and your mother brings me over a plate of food, I'm not going to hold my nose and grimace like someone just punched me in the kidney, even if the plate is filled with nothing but boiled curd. I'll suck it up. I'll compliment the chef. I may even eat the curd.

I just won't act like I'm too good for it.

Three Things I Just Don't Understand

Three Things I Just Don't Understand:

1. I just don't understand the free handouts in the grocery store on weekends.

More specifically, the reaction of shoppers to the free handouts. You've got the beleaguered store employee standing at the end of the aisle putting a tiny piece of brie cheese on a soggy saltine cracker, and shoppers are charging toward her like she's laying out a feast for the Queen.

Free food! Free food!

They act like she's wrapping that piece of rye bread in rolls of hundred dollar bills. Like that cup of fruit yogurt has a gold doubloon hidden at the bottom.

Do these shoppers not eat before they get there? Are they that hungry? Is this their family dinner? Maybe they go on a starvation diet for a week so they can load up on that inch-long slice of sausage pizza. I don't know.

I've seen irate shoppers, men and women alike, jostle each other for room and try to elbow their way to the front of the line for a chunk of pineapple. Voices are raised, carts bang together, fists nearly fly.

I'm always surprised I don't see people thrown to the ground and stomped like ants.

And heaven forbid if the poor worker runs out of handouts with people still waiting in line. She has to mumble an apology and flee for her life while the shoppers murmur in anger and decide whether or not to set the store on fire.

And it's always fun to watch the shoppers who wolf down the tiny cup of grapes, immediately reach for a second cup before anyone's the wiser, then walk away grinning like gargoyles because they think they put one over on the Man.

I know food is expensive these days, but geez...it's a piece of salami on a stick. It's not worth getting knee-capped with a tire iron.

2. I just don't understand Drives Around to Find the Best Price of Gas Guy.

This was an actual conversation I had with that guy last weekend:

Him: "You seen the price of gas recently?"
Me: "Yep. I've seen it."
Him: "I filled up yesterday. Know what I got?"
Me: "What did you get?"
Him: "Stopped at one place and it was $3.93. Then I drove to the next town and it was still $3.93. Then I went to another town and it was $3.93 again, except I talked to a guy who told me that down the road a ways it was $3.89. So I went there and it was actually $3.88. What do you think of that?"
Me: "You drove to four different towns?"
Him: "Yeah. But I got $3.88."

He probably drove 20 to 25 miles out of his way to save his five cents a gallon. I wasn't a math major, but...does that add up? Drives Around to Find the Best Price of Gas Guy makes no sense at all.

3. I just don't understand shaking hands in church.

Churches love shaking hands. Just love it.

And they're relentless. Absolutely relentless.

They catch you first as you walk in the front door. Two or three greeters are usually there, smiling broadly, hands outstretched in welcome. It's a gauntlet of torture.

I've tried to dodge around them. I've tried to walk right through them. I've grabbed my five-year old daughter as a prop so my hands aren't free.

I've tried to stumble and pretend to sprain my knee. I've pretended to look at my watch and quicken my stride like I'm desperately late, even though I don't wear a watch.

The greeters will have none of it. They take it personally if you refuse to shake. Their ears turn red and they chase after you. I've been practically tackled from behind like I'm a running back nearing the goal line.

I don't mean to be rude. But shouldn't we put this whole shaking hands thing to rest? Aren't we all aware by now of what lives on our hands? Hands are deplorable. They're disgusting. I don't want what's on your hands. And you don't want what's on mine. Keep your hands to yourself.

The fun doesn't stop at the door, though. Shortly after the service begins, your typical pastor encourages the congregation to turn to their neighbors and shake their hands warmly. And all I can think is, "You - the guy behind me. You've coughed up a gallon of phlegm in the last five minutes, and you want me to shake your hand? I don't think so. And you - the guy in front of me. I just saw you come out of the bathroom. How do I know what you did in there? Get away. And you - the lady a few seats over. Did you just wipe your nose with the back of your hand? I think I'm going to throw up."

Most of the time I just kneel down and pretend to tie my shoe for five minutes while people mill about me.

My church wonders why my shoes are always untied. I'm not going to tell them.

Bull Semen For Oil is a Fair Trade

No one ever asked me if I have the solution to America's crippling dependence on foreign oil. Why this tragic oversight is a complete mystery to me.

Because if they had asked me, I would have given them the answer - the perfect solution, the long-awaited key, the omega to oil's alpha.

Bull semen.

According to an Associated Press analysis of federal government trade data, U.S. exports to Iran have grown dramatically during the last several years. That whole "Axis of Evil" thing, we've still got that going on, and we're still shaking our fists at Tehran, and still scowling darkly in their general direction.

But it hasn't hurt the free market.

We've been selling Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad all manner of goodies for the longest time now. They include cigarettes, perfume, stethoscopes, soybeans, sculptures, bras (Who knew Admadinejad even wore a bra? I had no idea.) and saxophones.

And bull semen. $12.6 million worth at last count.

And Iran's not the only nation lining up for our bull semen. In 2006, the last year I could find a comprehensive figure, the world shelled out $56.4 million for our best bull semen.

You may wonder why they would do this. Well, it turns out bull semen is surprisingly versatile. You can use it in moisturizers and hair products among other things, along with the time-honored function of producing more bovines.

There's a reason they call it "Cream Gold" and "Texas Glee."

So why stop at $56.4 million? It occurs to me that there's more where that came from. Talk about your renewable resources.

If Iran wants as many vials as it can carry, then you can bet Saudi Arabia wouldn't mind a piece of the action too. And what about Argentina? And Qatar? And Nigeria?

Is there any reason at all why America couldn't become the Kuwait of bull semen?

In 2007, the U.S. imported 3.7 billion barrels of oil. At present prices of about $150 a barrel, that comes to (And this I did with pencil and paper because I couldn't find my calculator. I hope I don't embarrass myself.) $540 billion dollars worth of oil imports. That's a lot.

But pound for pound, bull semen is right there with crude oil in value. It goes for between $3 and $100 a unit. (Disclaimer here: I don't know what kind of volume a unit is. I also don't know the difference between $3 bull semen and $100 bull semen. I suppose the $100 bull had better hair and higher SAT scores.) Splitting the difference right down the middle at $50 a unit, all we need is 10.8 billion units of bull semen exports to break even.

Surely we've got enough bulls for that, don't we? I mean, I've been all through the West. Nobody lives there. There's lots of empty space. Let's fill it up with bulls and turn this ship around.

But again - nobody asked me.