Here’s one little story about my dad. Whenever we would discuss politics, and I would start spouting my commie beliefs, he would always look around, clearly scared that there might be FBI agents around who could hear me. And whenever we heard a police siren, anywhere, any time, he would look at me, and I could see it in his face, “oh no, they are on to you.”

Well, then there are the ones who call my parents. About me. Or rather, “me,” since my name is so common I used to count my clones in the phone book every year.

My dad calls me one night, concerned that I might be in dire straits because he was called by a collector. Somebody fucked up their research, I tell him — all I have is plastic, and besides, I haven’t used my parents’ address since 1981. Any credit-reporting service can tell folks where I’ve been hanging out since.

Now here’s the thing: He didn’t quite believe me. Those anonymous phone calls carry a lot of weight.

The terms gave the government a 79.9-percent stake and saddled A.I.G. with an onerous interest rate of 11.5 per cent.

That’s the writer talking, not one of his sources. I would have accepted “above-market interest rate,” but onerous? Fuck you.

The creditor here made lots of phone calls? They were mean? I have been in dire straights in my life. Don’t answer. Turn off your answering machine. File chapter 7.

There are a few occasions when the victimhood culture gets beyond my tolerance.

I simply don’t buy the actual causation element, in any event. He had serious cardiac disease. Sometime, something, was gonna give.

Every morning I see immigrants walking to work along the side of a 6 lane highway with no sidewalks or crosswalks, they have to dart across those six lanes to go to work. In the rain. Asians going to paint fingernails and give people pedicures, hispanics off to wash pots. Somehow I think this guy never had a day as bad as these people live every day.

Okay, hate me.

Fighting the bad guys for a living. Not too shabby, really.