What is Aleppo??

The Libertarian Presidential candidate, Gary Johnson was asked a question on a morning news show by noted plagiarist, Mike Barnicle..."What would you do if elected about Aleppo?"

Johnson: What is Aleppo?

With that three word reply, the beltway punditry crowd unanimously declared Johnson's long shot candidacy over. Any candidate for the highest office in the land who doesn't know that Aleppo is the third largest city in Syria and is ground zero of the refugee crisis now plaguing Southern Europe has been labeled unfit for office by all of the smart people in Washington. 

To which I say...bull****

What follows is not a defense of Gary Johnson. Although he and I agree on much more than we disagree on, he seems a bit too goofy for my taste. He's smart enough, and has executive experience as a governor and all, but when I look at him and hear him speak, he reminds me too much of Howdy Doody. Still, in the slim pickings of 2016, I would prefer goofy to insane and pathological. 

Johnson is a Libertarian, and as such is probably the least likely candidate to give a rat's a** about Aleppo. He would probably love to talk about the moronic foreign policy decisions that made Aleppo famous, but the finer points of middle eastern geography isn't high on his skill set, and I for one would like to see more of this. Maybe if our politicians cared more about the refugee crisis in our country, the destruction of our cities, we would be better off. Instead of wringing our hands about the innocent deaths in Aleppo, how about a plan to stop the innocent deaths in Chicago?

So, poor Gary Johnson has a brain fart about what Aleppo is ( he claims he thought it was an an acronym for something--I'll work on that! ), so that means he has disqualified himself for public office. That's good to know. Lack of proper knowledge of world geography is now more important than the proper handling of classified information. Poor geography skills is now more devastating than serial infidelities and publically lusting after your own daughter. Got it.

But, assuming that Johnson did know what Aleppo was, here's how he should have answered.

Johnson: What would I do about Aleppo? That's like asking Vladimir Putin what he plans to do  about Chicago. Aleppo is a city in the middle of a war zone in a country fighting a civil war. And while I can make a good case that so far our policies have made that civil war worse, not better...as President I plan on doing nothing about Aleppo. For better or worse, Syria will have to sort it out. Besides, I'm gonna have my hands full with Detroit, Baltimore, Chicago, Newark, Gary, Ferguson, etc....

Oh, and it turns out that Aleppo is an acronym...

A- Alliance of the

L- Loser

E- Elite

P- Pampered

P- Punditry

O- Oligharchs 

My Day At The Dentist

Today I was introduced to the concept of sedation dentistry...like regular dentistry but with better drugs. I was referred to Monroe Harris DMD by my regular dentist and regaled with glowing testimonials about his skill and reputation. I was assured that I wouldn't "feel a thing."

I arrived at the chamber of sadistic horrors at 9:45 this morning as per the instructions. His friendly staff walked me through the preliminaries with relative competence. Then I was ushered into the pre-surgery consultation room where I met Harris and a bevy of subordinates who tried to explain to me what was about to happen. I nodded my head dutifully, distracted by the 50 inch plasma TV hanging on the wall blaring out sports center. Then everyone disappeared, promising to return shortly with some additional paperwork, leaving me alone to contemplate the performance of the rookie Denver Bronco quarterback from last night's game....for 45 minutes.

I shouldn't complain. The television could just have easily been on some real estate flipping channel, or worse...MSNBC. But, having 45 minutes to think about your dental fate while you are A. Starving because of your fast, and B. You have the mother of all coffee-deprived headaches, is a bad combination. Finally, a perky assistant bounced through the door with an armful of disclaimers that required my signature. As an added pre-surgery benefit, she had gone to the trouble of calling my insurance company to confirm the sad fact that I have no dental coverage (Thanks, Obama!). She presented me with the bill for the day's services...before I had actually received them...$1450. Yes, nothing quite gets you in the mood for a root canal like a four figure bill payable immediately. I informed the nice lady that my wife had the credit card and would be more than happy to take care of this. Sure enough, five minutes later Pam appeared at the door, big happy smile on her face.

Pam: How cool is that? We earn points for this!!

The next step in the procedure was to move me to surgery room #2. There was no television in this more austere, all business room. However, on the wall directly in front of me there was a wide screen, panoramic full mouth X-ray of my teeth taken earlier in the morning. Seriously, this thing was at least four feet wide. It looked like a negative from some old Auschwitz photograph, my teeth like malnourished prisoners. During the additional twenty minutes spent staring at it, my mood began to go from apprehensive to disturbed. Finally, Harris walked in exuding brisk confidence, "Doug, I want to assure you that we are going to take great care of you. You have absolutely nothing to worry about."

Then I heard the music start. 1970's Motown began piping through the speaker system as they prepped me with an IV and hooked me up to several monitors. I heard him say, "This will be the last thing you feel until I'm through." 

Ok, I have been put under for three separate operations in my life. This was different. He was right. I didn't feel a thing. But, the anesthesia only killed the pain. It did nothing for my hearing. For the next thirty minutes, I heard everything. The high-pitched whiz of the drill, the metallic grinding of the tools, and the dulcet tones of Marvin Gaye moaning about sexual healing. I must say that Monroe Harris DMD has a very good voice, since he sang along on every song. On the ones I knew, I joined in. I heard everything, even the scattered laughter when I helped Diana Ross with...Baby, baby...where did our love go?"

After it was all over, I was informed that this particular root canal was to be a two part procedure, the second half to be scheduled in October...but not to worry, what I paid today covered both visits.

So, I must do this again.

The novocaine is finally wearing off. The pain is bearable. The taste in my mouth is positively medieval.

But Pam is busy making homemade banana pudding, soup and Apple sause for dinner. Harris was right. He did take good care of me!

Gone To The Dogs

Honestly people, between my throbbing tooth and the comic book quality of the news each day...mornings have become problematic. I understand that it is my duty as a citizen, as a businessman and as a human being to remain informed about the world. But a human being can take only so many headlines featuring the words, corrupt...e-mail...polls...safe spaces, without an overwhelming desire to chuck your iPad into the recycling.

Then, somebody sends you a link to any of a number of sites which feature pictures and videos of puppies frolicking. You click on it warily. You've been warned that these sites are as addictive as gambling or porn. Once you start, it's difficult to stop, they say.

.....too late.

There's Dog Per Day and Paw My Gosh and Cute Emergency. And they are all like crack. I mean, what would you rather do...read about the latest FBI document drop of Clinton e-mails, or watch this...

https://twitter.com/cuteemergency/status/772681940671553536

Would you rather get fully up to speed about the latest micro-aggressions raging unchecked throughout America's college campuses...or watch this in a loop for five minutes?

https://twitter.com/cuteemergency/status/772274245535662080

Would your day be made better by reading about Hillary Clinton's latest coughing fit, or looking at this?

https://twitter.com/cuteemergency/status/772999012433727488

Yes, my friends, with every passing day this seems increasingly like a sane decision...

Dentistry. The Evil Science.

I have a toothache. This is big news since I seldom have toothaches. It is also big news because the prospect of dental work is the sort of thing which plunges me into psychology darkness. It's a long, boring story that involves a horrifying dental experience at the hands of a quack dentist in New Orleans which I would much prefer not talking about. For me, here are my biggest fears:

1. Falling into a tree shredder.

2. Being lowered slowly into a cauldron of boiling tar.

3. Going to the dentist.

That's not to say that I never go to the dentist. I am, after all, an adult. I steel my resolve every so often to have my teeth cleaned. Despite generous application of laughing gas during the procedure, I usually have to change shirts when I get home. It's pathetic actually.

So after a six hour drive home yesterday, I unloaded the car then headed over to Dr. Talton's little shop of horrors for an examination of my ailing mouth. After a thorough cleaning, the man himself appeared and stared pensively at my X-rays, emitting several troubling "hmmms" along the way. The news was not good. The offending molar has a leaky filling. Apparently, something had gotten under the filling and was making contact with the root or nerves or some such horror. It was beyond his abilities to fix. He would need to send me to an oral surgeon, he said, somebody who would knock me out before the procedure. I was not happy about letting some new monster into my mouth. Dr. Talton was terrifying enough, but I have grown accustomed to his antics, and find him relatively charming...in a Son of Sam sort of way. The prospect of some new guy, especially one who specializes in oral surgery sounded terrible.

Me: Why can't you do this Doc?

Dr. Talton: There are not enough drugs in this entire building to keep you still enough for this procedure.

So, now I await....the call...from the surgeon's office to set a time for the procedure, which as far as I can tell will involve an exploratory root canal that will proceed to an extraction if the tooth cannot be saved. In the meantime, I'm popping Advil like Skittles, and trying desperately not to act like a baby in front of my wife. 

Too late.

Time to Man-Up...

This is pitiful. This cannot and will not stand. There comes a time in every man's life when he must say, "Enough is enough..." Today is that day for one Jon Manchester. Scripture clearly says, when I was a child I grilled like a child, but now that I am a man, I have put away childish things. This affront to my son-in-law's manhood has gone on long enough. Today, I take him to Lowe's and buy him a big boy grill. 

Today is Labor Day. Meat will be cooked. In order for all four of us to be able to eat at the same time, a grill needs to be large enough to cook more than one steak at a time. Since both Jon and myself aren't midgets, bending over this ridiculous excuse for a grill for an hour might do permanent damage to our backs. So, today this macro-aggression to manly pride will be banished from the property. 

It will be replaced with any of a number of possibilities, seeing as how we live in America, the land of consumer choice. Maybe this beauty...

Or, maybe this one...

For a few dollars more, and with an eye towards the future even this baby will have to be considered...

He tells me he's a charcoal man, no gas. Fine. I prefer a gas grill, but am not an evangelist on the subject. What really matters is that I will never, ever have to see THIS in his back yard ever again...

How Did This Happen??

My firstborn now lives in a real house. There's a yard that slopes down to a curb, a large back yard fully fenced where the dog can frolic. The house sits on a culdesac. There is a mailbox, tilted a bit forward, but a mailbox nonetheless. Inside, the place is roomy and inviting, decorated, color coordinated, organized and livable. All of this adult behavior was carried out on a budget, without any assistance from her parents. The kitchen sprawls out in shining splendor, the counter festooned with all the modern design conveniences...

The living room is artfully equipped...

How did all of this happen? Why does self-sufficient, responsible living surprise me so when I am confronted with it coming from my children? Isn't this how I raised them? Isn't this how I expected them to turn out? Well...yes! But still, it's startling to see the results. It is a bittersweet emotion to at once see proof of their independence, and evidence that they no longer need you. Sure, they still need their parents for moral support, occasional advice and spoiling, but they no longer require your financial backing, or your daily council. They are, in every way that matters...grown ups.

It's a beautiful thing. 

Dunnevant Road Trip

About a week ago Pam and I decided that we would drive down to Columbia to spend Labor Day weekend with Kaitlin and Jon. Immediately, in a bizarre cosmic confluence of fate and physics, hurricane Hermine began forming in the stew above the Gulf of Mexico.

This is the divine order of things whereby Dunnevant road trips = Torrential downpours of Noahesk proportions. We should consider renting ourselves out to drought-stricken regions around the world. Haven't seen rain in two years, you say? Hire the Dunnevants to drive across your parched land and instant relief can be yours! 

If current forecasts as of 6:30am this morning are to be believed, the worst of it will be on Saturday morning as we leave Richmond. The further to the southwest we travel, the better it will be, and by the time we arrive in Columbia and for all of the time we are there, the weather promises to be delightful. However, even though nothing is mentioned in the long range forecast, I'm absolutely certain that on Tuesday morning some violent rain/wind/hail/ pestilence event will materialize directly over the roof of our vehicle and accompany us all the way back to Richmond.

As a parent of kids who both live far away, there are times when you are overcome with a desire to spoil them. You hear about their troubles and struggles on the telephone. You get a text that is tinged with sadness or frustration. If they lived in Short Pump...or even say, Fredericksburg...you would bring them dinner. You would stop by unannounced, give them $50 and tell them to go out on a date while you watch after the dog. But they don't live down the street, they live in other states, far away. So, you travel. You make a weekend of it.

It's times like these when I marvel at what it must be like to be the parents of kids who live in other countries, or to be the parents of missionaries in some God-forsaken hell-hole somewhere where you can't even reach them on the phone. Unimaginable. It makes complaining about a rainy 6 hour drive seem ungrateful.

Hats off to all of my missionary friends everywhere. You know who you are...