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happiness.
    lindsaylohan Every minute I rot in here, a thousand more acres of rain forest r cleared by big business & Halliburton & LL can’t do anything about it. No blood 4 oil, Cheney!
    lindsaylohan !!!! Some random stalker-dude just bailed me out!!! Looks drty & crcked out, borderline homeless, but in hott young Keith Richards way. YUM!
    lindsaylohan Learned so much about myself in jail. Definitely changes U & ur priorities. Want to work w/ poor/fat people . . . but first Cash’s after-party! PEACE & LOVE, guyz!
    TRUE STORY . . .
    “IT’S MY LAWNMOWER. I CAN SHOOT IT IF I WANT TO”
Drunk man arrested for shooting lawnmower
    57-year-old Keith Walendowski was minding his own business one spring morning, drinking beer, basking in the warm sun, and shooting his lawnmower with a sawed-off shotgun, when officers from the Milwaukee Police Department arrived to question him. Turns out a nosy neighbor had called to report shots fired from the direction of Walendowski’s backyard.
    According to the criminal complaint, Walendowski explained the noise very simply. “I’ll tell you the truth,” he told police. “I got pissed because my lawnmower wouldn’t start, so I got my shotgun and shot it. It’s my lawnmower and my yard, so I can shoot it if I want.” Damn right.
    Despite his seemingly flawless constitutional defense, Walendowski was charged with a felony count of possessing a short-barreled shotgun and a misdemeanor count of disorderly conduct while armed.
    Keith Walendowski’s is a cautionary tale. A country where a man cannot get liquored up at 9:30 in the morning and shoot a lawnmower in his own backyard has come unmoored from its founding principles of individual freedom and inebriation. First they came for the sawed-off shotguns, America.

Chapter 5
Obama vs. Cheney: Late Night in the White House Kitchen
    P resident Barack Obama is jolted awake by the sound of a crash. He sits up in bed and waits in still silence to hear it again, but nothing. The president turns to see the first lady sleeping, unfazed by the noise. Maybe it was just the sound of the overnight staff moving about downstairs, he thought. Or perhaps it was nothing more than the drafty old White House whistling its two-hundred-year-old song. Whatever it was, Obama resents having been woken from a wonderful dream in which he was riding a bicycle built for two along Lake Michigan with his beloved friend and unrepentant terrorist Bill Ayres.
    The clock on the nightstand in the president’s White House bedroom reads 3:37 a.m. He puts his head back on the pillow.
    Then, before he can slip back into unconsciousness, an even louder crash—the unmistakable sound of a plate smashing on a hard floor. Obama springs up from bed. This is no dream. The first lady rolls over, looking up at her husband.
    “Did you hear that?” he asks.
    “Did you lock the back door before you went to bed?” she whispers.
    “Damn it!” Obama smacks himself on the forehead.
    Exasperated by the president’s recent negligence of basic household responsibilities, the first lady shoots back, “Well, get down there and see what it is.” She rolls back over on her pillow. “And sort the recycling while you’re down there—like I asked you yesterday.”
    The president peels back the covers and climbs out of bed. He is wearing the “I ♥ Big Government” pajamas given to him as a birthday gift by his old Republican colleague in the Senate Dick Lugar. (Lugar, as you may know, is Capitol Hill’s king of gag gifts. In the midst of the Lewinsky scandal, he sent Bill Clinton a box of exploding cigars with a humorous note reading, “This one really blew up in your face, didn’t it?! Yours, Big Dick.”)
    Obama grabs a 7-iron out of the golf bag left in a closet by Dwight Eisenhower and tiptoes his way out of the room to confront whomever—or whatever—is making the noise. As the president slides down the grand stairwell with his back against the wall, he sees a faint light