Second-hand smoke health hazards are hysterical, bureaucratic bullsh*t.
“…I found myself thinking of my friend and colleague John Ringo’s signature line which is: We went to the moon on coffee, bourbon and Marlboros. We’re not going to Mars on Evian and tofu.”
So, so sadly true. Read it all.
This time they’re going after the boutique cigar business, all in the dubious name of public health.
“If you are still buying the anti-smoking crusaders’ propaganda that second-hand smoke is killing many thousands of people every year just ask them to point to a single study that tells you what level of exposure to second hand smoke is dangerous. They can’t tell you because it has never been measured in any of the so called ‘scientific studies’ which for the most part are simply surveys of people who have lung cancer and can remember being exposed to second hand smoke at some point in their life. It’s not science, it’s propaganda.”
The ruling class will always be able to find premium cigars. They just don’t want it to be easy for you.
Via Self Reliance Central.
Tar and feathers are too good for these big government motherfuckers. Who are, quite simply, always on the lookout for new ways to justify their fat salaries and skinny efforts. While the pols are too busy thieving to help. Rope. Lamp post.
“You can bet that if the powers that be were in intractable pain they would figure out a way to get the opioids. I have a mother-in-law with spinal stenosis who was in so much pain last week that she was crying vigorously. She’s a stoic who has hardly ever cried in her entire life, but the pain was unbearable. We were able to get her fentanyl patches and the pain is reduced. However, the doctors are limited in what they can give her and it is quite scary.” —veryskeptic
“What’s it like for the kids when your mom is suffering excruciating pain because the doctor’s afraid to prescribe her enough medication to deal with the pain caused by cancer? When it seems to take an act of Congress to get a prescription for synthetic THC to deal with nausea brought on by the anti-cancer medication? When your mother starves to death because she can’t eat for the nausea and pain? And you have to watch her suffer and die because some bureaucrat was worried she might become addicted.” —Rob Crawford
Mrs. Charm was also a stoic and she was also in bad pain from her lymphoma cancer but in her case it was more a stubborn refusal to buck bad medical advice than government interference. When she finally did agree to take the pills and later the injections she died in relative peace.
My grandfather, however, died in excruciating pain because his spinal cancer occurred at a time (1935) when the bureaucrats were just starting to restrict the opioids that had, throughout his life, been available without a prescription.
Big government is not your friend. Whatever lying dipshits like Obama and Clinton say.
Hadn’t been back to view my Amazon reviews for months. Last review was on a good cat scratcher for Senor Gato. Before that, though, it was September 14, 2015, about the time Mrs. Charms’ cancer treatments were becoming seriously ineffective.
In checking the old ones out before doing a new one of Arkwright, a new Allen Steele scifi goodie, I discover Amazon has a “safe space,” a filter to automatically hide reviews of “sensitive products”—defined as anything erotic or controversial that might mean embarrassment for a reader of the reviews.
Concern for the precious little snowflake generation, in other words, readily noticeable on any college campus near you, has now come to the world’s largest retailer. Ugh.
The city government played along for a while. Then they got serious.
Yesterday they removed the David Bowie street sign that Ziggy Stardust fans had got up in place of Bowie Street, an apparent reference to slave dealer and Alamo icon James Bowie, though the history on the original sign is unclear.
The change was less about slavery than about the rocker who finally fell to earth the other day, dead at 69 from cancer, the great destroyer.
Nice try, Ziggy fans. Keep pushing the formal petition. You never know, what with the slavery angle in a city as politically correct as Austin, you just might succeed. After all, Ziggy already has a whole constellation to himself.
Back in the mid-1980s, I was assigned to cover the local AIDS epidemic. I got used to reading, talking and writing about HIV and its impact on people, usually gay men, but sometimes straight men and women. I got to know a few of them well, and went to their funerals.
Thursday, taking our new furry friend Pumpkin/Garfield to the vet for a checkup, I learned that he has Feline Immunodeficiency Virus, the cat version of HIV. It cannot infect humans and is spread between cats primarily by bites. According to Wikipedia, it is estimated to have thus far stricken a mere 4.4 percent of the cats in the world. According to some web sites on cats, Senor Gato has a maximum of five years to live.
While Mr. Boy and I already were working on keeping our new companion indoors, for our sake as well as his own, we now must do it, according to the vet, to keep him from spreading the disease to other cats in the neighborhood. And for his own protection since a common bacterial or viral infection that a healthy cat might fight off quickly could kill one, like him, with a damaged immune system. His own litter box could kill him if it isn’t kept clean.
Ironic, to be sure. Having recently lost Mrs. Charm to advanced cancer we have now returned to caring for the dying. And, eventually, to grieving the loss of another loved one. It seems to be the way of our world.
The vultures are starting to swarm ten weeks after Mrs. Charm’s passing from advanced cancer. Gathering their moldering black wings about them, they peruse the newspaper obituaries looking for grief-befogged suckers.
Their subsequent letters, like a recent one from a fellow Central Texan named Ignacio, start off with the usual meaningless condolences. Then they segue into a promise of quick cash for the house should a survivor decide to sell. At an extremely low-ball offer, no doubt.
Trouble is, Ignacio, you got the address correct to send the letter to but you got the address of the house you’re proposing to buy wrong.
Not sure how you did that. Unless, in addition to being a vulture, you’re also a moron.