Everyone’s had a fingers-wide handful of reasons to be mad at the government. At Wall Street. At Ben Bernanke. At AIG, Merrill Lynch, Lehman Brothers, Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae. And we’ll be using both sets of fingers and hands to scoop our own money into the pockets of some awful company stewards in the hopes they won’t screw things up worse the next time around.But the home mortgage lenders? That’s what I think the home mortgage lenders should get from this bailout. Not. A. Finger. Permit me to do some remedial math:News reports are quoting that 94% of all home mortgages are doing just fine, and only the remaining 6% are in or going into default status. And what happens when someone defaults on their mortgage? The lender gets it. So now those lenders own 6% of the homes they’d lended money for their purchase. That’s still an asset, as far as I know. Not liquid like cash, but not like that 6% of their money goes poof, either.

And for the sake of argument, let’s make some ultra-conservative assumptions:

1. Every one of those mortgages defaulted beginning at the first payment; the lender did not receive a single penny back for those loans.
2. Every home was purchased for no money down, meaning that the amount of the mortgage was the price for the home.
3. Every home could be liquidated for 50% of it’s purchase price.

If we use those assumptions, I think we can then also assume that the home mortgage lenders are a bunch of pantywastes who don’t deserve a penny of bailout. If they liquidate that 6% of home inventory for half price, that means they’re only out 3%. If any of these companies had even attempted to tighten their belts they could have fought their way through a loss of 3% of their business. And that’s with a worst case scenario of immediate defaults and zero money down. If the home buyer put down 10% the cost of the home and diligently paid their monthly mortgage bill for several years, it’s that much less the mortgage lenders would be out when they liquidated those homes in a big, bulk sell-off. And if they got 60%? Well hell, now we’re down to 1-2% losses. EVERYONE is taking on those kinds of losses this year - why should they get special treatment?

I haven’t heard of a tie yet between commercial paper (the new financial buzzword of these shitass economic times) and home mortgages, so I say let the home mortgage companies twist in the wind.

Not a finger!

Hey Madonna *clap*

Get off of the weed *clap*

Get off of the weed *clap*

You ain’t kickin’ no ass *clap*

Least not one that knows how to kill and field dress a moose.

(I know, it doesn’t rhyme. I guess that makes me as stupid as Madonna. On second thought, no it doesn’t. I’ve seen Madonna interviewed by Matt Lauer. Pretty sure I’m smarter.)

Maybe I kissed my kids square on the mouth because I thought I had an impenetrable immune system.

Maybe I shared Agalia’s applesauce spoon because I thought it might help toughen me up a bit if my body had to fight whatever she was fighting.

Maybe I chomped on the same piece of chicken DJ was eating just because if my kids are going through it, dad should go through it, too.  Solidarity, brothers and sisters.

Or maybe I’m just desperate for a day off and will do anything to get a little time off, even if it means spending that time in bed.  Whatever the case, my head feels like it’s going to explode and my bones feel like they’re about to start crumbling like a sand castle at high tide.

Can I get a little pity? Pllleeeease?

I know I’m supposed to feel sorry for you, but I don’t.

They’re calling them “predatory lenders”, but when Diane and I went mortgage shopping for the house right next to yours we knew the kind of payment we could afford. When they told us they’d give us almost half a million for any house in our market, a snort of laughter propelled a booger straight out of my nose. We knew we couldn’t afford a house like that. If you’d spent 30 seconds running through your finances, you’d have known you couldn’t afford this house, either.

So don’t try to tell me how this wasn’t your fault.

I’d probably have a pang of sympathy if you and your friends didn’t use part of our lawn as your through-way to the main road after a party. But you did. How many times was I at your front door the next day? Four? Six? And Diane even made you cookies around Christmas for the two years you lived here. Never a card back or anything that might resemble graciousness. Unless you count tire tracks on our lawn, of course.

And now you’re gone, orange tag on the electric meter explaining why the lights aren’t on, phone books and other crap piling up on the front porch. Every few weeks I’m cutting your lawn, just so it isn’t overtaken by weeds that’ll infiltrate our lawn.

You sucked as a neighbor.  I’m not sorry to see you go.

I’ve heard it said that you should not judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes. My hearing has never been that good, because I often enjoy a good judgment every now and then.

I used to hate it when I’d visit one of my favorite blogs and find the author trying to leverage my loyalty by asking me to go somewhere else and read some other thing that author wrote. Like they were trying to squeeze me for every bit of traffic data they could, in the hopes they could parlay that into fame and fortune. Dirty sneaks.

Please allow me to present to you my new walking shoes. They’re only good for about a mile, but they helped me to understand the other side of the extrasite click request. As it turns out, that author of one of my favorite blogs probably put a lot of effort into that post somewhere else. So much so that the author probably didn’t have the time or energy to scratch together something interesting on their own blog. So instead of putting out garbage (though, hello? Don’t confuse that author with me - I put out garbage all the time), they point you to a link where there’s a post they wrote that you just might like.

So without further ado, please stop over to The Cheek of God, where I made a guest post for Brian who is currently without computer. I posted about how Some Call Me The Macgyver of Love. It’s probably garbage, but it’s the finest garbage a tall kitchen bag can hope to hold. It’s the kind of quality refuse you’ve come to expect from Family Clay.

By the way, the haircut? (gotta click over to see it)  I guess I’d wanted my hair to be just perfect before my class pictures, so the night before, I took matters into my own hands.