An Iraq Veteran has a personal message for Barack Obama

If you agree with this video please e-mail it to all your friends. If you don't agree, just ignore it and I'll love you anyway. By the way, this video is NOT part of the McCain campaign - it was not paid for nor approved by him. It is just this person's (and my) opinion. God bless America!

Tough Love vs. Spanking - Good Argument

Dear Friends,

Most of the American population thinks it improper to spank children, so I have tried other methods to control my kids when they have one of those moments.

One that I found effective is for me to just take the child for a car ride and talk. Some say it's the vibration from the car, others say it's the time away from any distractions such as TV, Video Games, Computer, IPod, etc. Either way, my kids usually calm down and stop misbehaving after our car ride together. Eye to eye contact helps a lot too.

I've included a photo below of one of my sessions with my son, in case you would like to use the technique. This works with grandchildren, nieces, and nephews as well.

Sincerely,
Your Friend

Kids will be kids!

Yesterday my almost 16 yr. old grandson started out seeing how high he could pile whipped cream atop an oreo cookie.


Then he decided to plow his face into it to see if he could eat the cookie underneath.


Then came the experiment to see how much whipped cream he could pile on his face.


I guess when you're that age it doesn't take much to amuse you.

Development of the Turgoatkey

An Origin Story No One Asked For

So, this morning started like most mornings: hot chocolate in hand, animals where they belong, peace and tranquility... Ha! Just kidding. The goat was in the turkey pen again.

Yep. Our young Boer buck—who I now suspect might be part mountain goat, part parkour athlete, and possibly part raccoon—was inside the turkey tractor. Just standing there casually, like he belonged, looking smug, trying to blend in.

Now, before you call Animal Control or the Men in Black, let me explain.

We don’t entirely know how he got in there, but I’ve come to understand this little guy is a four-legged Houdini with horns and a food obsession. Then again, we didn’t know how he kept ending up in the doe pasture either—until one day, we caught him climbing the fence like a jailhouse escapee, wedging his head between the feeder crib and the fence post to gain leverage. He basically used physics and stubbornness to launch himself over. We added an electric fence. Problem solved. At least that one.

Fast forward to yesterday: I’m doing my headcount and—surprise! No goat in the buck pasture. I do a little searching and there he is, inside the turkey tractor.

Now, let me paint you a picture. The turkey tractor is an 8' x 12' pen with an A-frame tarp roof. It moves daily so the turkeys always have fresh ground to destroy with their unapologetic digestive systems. No cleaning—just drag the whole thing 12 feet and let the cycle of poop and pecking continue.

And somehow, this goat figured out how to breach Fort Turkey.

Obviously, he was after the grain. Because nothing motivates a goat like a snack that doesn’t belong to him.

Getting him out, however, was like extracting a cat from under a couch using salad tongs. The bottom sides of the pen are covered in chicken wire, the tarp is stapled on tighter than Aunt Marge’s wig in a windstorm, and the A-frame roof is made from floppy PVC pipe. It took two grown adults, several questionable decisions, and some mild cussing to hoist him over the wire and out a gap we made by peeling back the tarp like we were unwrapping a very confused birthday present.

Which brings me to my next brilliant idea:
The Turgoatkey.

Yes, you heard me. A new, genetically engineered species—half turkey, half goat, all attitude. A trailblazing, bipartisan barnyard diplomat who’s equally at home in the goat pen and the turkey tractor. Think of the collaboration! The synergy! The weird noises it would make!

I’m not saying it would revolutionize farming, but I am saying it might be the answer to problems we haven’t invented yet.

Now, I haven’t worked out the details like… say… how to create it… but I’ve got enthusiasm, a Sharpie, and a doodle of what it might look like. That’s basically science.

So if you'd like to be on the official waiting list to be notified when the first Turgoatkey hatches (or is born… or maybe just wanders in from another dimension), let me know. No promises, but you'll be the first to get a T-shirt.

In the meantime, keep your goats locked up and your turkeys supervised. Because once they start working together, we’re all in trouble.

Sheep Poop!

Now, I know what you're thinking—“Wow, what a glamorous life she must lead.” And you'd be absolutely right. Because what says glamour more than spending a breezy afternoon examining sheep poop like it’s fine wine?

Jim and I recently attended a FAMACHA workshop. For the uninitiated (i.e., anyone with a normal life), FAMACHA is a method used to determine internal parasite levels in sheep and goats—so you only deworm the animals that need it. That way, the worms don’t build up resistance and start demanding union wages and PTO. (If there is a parasite overload, the inner eyelids, which should be bright pink, will be pale pink to white, indicating anemia.)

It all started innocently enough. We sat through a slide presentation where someone, somewhere, decided a three-foot close-up of an sheep's inner eyelid was a good idea before lunch. Then it was time for hands-on practice. We filed outside to check actual sheep eyeballs, flipping lids like we were working at a fast-food joint for livestock: “Would you like anemia with that?”

After the eyelids came the poop. Glorious, glorious poop. Now, ideally, you’d just stand around, clipboard in hand, while your sheep politely deposits their samples in front of you like the cooperative little angels they are in the storybook version of farming. In reality, we spent an uncomfortable amount of time crouched behind woolly butts, waiting, praying, and occasionally fishing for it ourselves like gold mine prospectors.

Let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like elbowing your way into a sheep’s personal space while whispering, “Please poop. Please. Just. . . poop.” Honestly, the only thing missing was a candlelight dinner and a playlist of Barry White.

One gal in our group was the Beyoncé of sheep wrangling. She had this move—some kind of judo sheep snatch—that would’ve made a professional wrestler weep. She caught a sheep mid-sprint with the grace of a panther. Meanwhile, the rest of us were performing interpretive dance routines with halters and embarrassment.

Back at the barn, things really got weird. We measured the poop, mashed it into a scientific smoothie, strained it like fine soup stock, and slapped it on a microscope slide. I half expected Gordon Ramsay to walk in and scream, “It’s RAW!” Then we broke out calculators and math formulas that made me long for the simple days of long division and pencil sharpeners.

And let me tell you, the weather? Absolutely divine. Sunny, cool, a slight breeze—just a whisper of autumn in the air. Perfect poop-collecting weather. While the rest of the world was out hiking or sipping overpriced lattes on some lakeside dock, we were harvesting fecal samples and living our best life. That, my friends, is dedication—or insanity.

In fact, I think we’re onto something here. I see a whole new frontier opening up—competitive poop collection. Maybe even a league. I’m talking official jackets, theme music, commemorative mugs. We’ll call it Poop Gatherers of New England—PGNE. Jim says that acronym sounds like a gas company, so he’s pitching Poop Gatherers of America instead. PGA. Has a nice ring, right? Finally, a reason to watch golf.

So, if anyone needs me next weekend, I’ll be training. Sheep poop waits for no one.