This tiny state does debt... big!

http://www.thedailybeast.com/galleries/1740/1/

Guess who's furthest in the hole, America?

Aw, yeah. You know, what makes this victory even sweeter is that it we did it despite an entire town going into receivership and our former governor's jackass moves to smack down the poor in the name of fiscal responsibility. Double burn, homeless kids!

Points for honesty, I guess.

Sick of winter? Too bad! Another storm hits Southern New England | Turn to 10

Pointless side note: Screw you, winter.

Thank you.

We're coming up on the eleventy thousandth day of winter here in Rhode Island, and it's snowing again. Non-snowy states may think that up here in the Northeast, we handle any amount of snow like it's nothing at all, but that really isn't the case. We just slog through it and hope that driving conditions aren't like they were this morning, when it took me an hour to make my ten-mile commute to work.

Which brings me to the magic of Route 146, a state highway that runs north from I-95 in Providence until it hits the border, whereupon it becomes Massachusetts' problem until it runs into the Mass Pike. Route 146 is the highway version of an old person who insists on living like it was 1955 because everything was just so perfect then. On a good day, when the weather is agreeable, one can expect four lanes of the following on 146: frost heaves that run for miles; on-ramps that deposit cars on the freeway immediately with no room to merge; one puzzling off-ramp that deposits cars from the road to a residential neighborhood with no transition whatsoever; the remains of unfortunate animals that have been left where they fell for weeks or months; road signs obscured by overgrown trees and grass; and drivers regularly going 100 mph (the speed limit is 55, because it is the Olden Times). And then today, 45 minutes into what is usually a 20-minute commute, when the entire population is on the verge of winter madness, this:

So thank you, 146. Thank you for stating the most fucking obvious thing on the big LED sign you don't need because you never use it right. Because when there's actually something to tell us about that we might want to know, like, oh, say, an accident or a broken water main, you'll be sure to tell us something even more pressing, like ".08: IT'S THE LAW" or "BUCKLE UP: IT'S THE LAW" OR "NO TEXTING TEENS: IT'S THE LAW." Or - if I may be so bold to suggest something new - perhaps "146: BECAUSE YOU HAVE NO ALTERNATIVE. BWA HA HA HA HA."

Oh, well done.

From today's Providence Journal:

PROVIDENCE -- Luigi "Baby Shacks'' Manocchio, the former longtime boss of the Patriarca crime family, was indicted Thursday morning on extortion charges for shaking down the owners of several adult entertainment businesses in the city including the Cadillac Lounge and Satin Doll strip clubs.

The charges come as federal agents this morning arrested more than 100 suspected mobsters in multiple investigations of organized crime families in New York, New Jersey and Rhode Island.

The charges against Manocchio, 83, allege that he received monthly protection payments -- paid in cash -- from the owners of the strip clubs. Failure to pay, would result in "the use of intimidation and implied threats of force, violence and fear," the indictment alleges.

Hey, Rhode Island! Congratulations. Really. Look who's all grown up and playing with the big boys! Here's the whole world not even remembering that you have a mob, and there you are, mentioned in the same exact sentence as New York and New Jersey! Oh, Providence mafia. From now on, whenever I take the Dean Street exit off of Rte. 10 and pass under the mural of the city's most notable made men (because how better to honor one's organized crime syndicate than with an off-ramp mural?), I'll remember that today's Cosa Nostra don't just sit menacingly in Federal Hill bakeries, sipping tiny espressos while not smiling. They also shake down strip clubs! None of that cyber-crime nonsense that so many other mafias are dabbling in these days, and likewise none of the messy drug stuff that's so... untoward. No, today's Providence mobsters extort protection money from good, old-fashioned gentlemen's establishments. The kind professional athletes and other hard-working types from Massachusetts and Connecticut cross state lines to patronize, because they're unlucky enough to live in states that require their girly dancers to wear underpants. Pfft. Until recently, ours didn't even have to be old enough to vote!

I have to take issue, however, with the mob nicknames our esteemed criminals are choosing. "Baby Shacks?" Are mobsters like racehorses or show dogs, where no two can ever have the same name? Even if the name once hearkened to his reputation as a ladies' man, once he hit grandpa territory, it really should have been changed. To just about anything else. Would being known as Luigi "Grandpa" Manocchio or Luigi "Get Offa My Lawn" Manocchio really diminish his cred with the other gangsters? If the answer is yes, Grandpa Get Offa My Lawn, then those gangsters were never really your friends to begin with.

The beginning.

Awright, Rhode Island. It’s on. It. Is. On. I have had it up to here (and I’m pointing to my neck, see) with your accents, and your coffee milk, and your Kennedy Plaza, and your potholes, and your Richard Hatches, and your crazy hot dogs lined up some guy’s arm, and your picturesque seaside towns, and your clams, and your over-privileged Ivy League jags, and your scary puppets, and your dumb downtown-anchoring mall, and your state-based xenophobia, and your scarily aggressive drivers, and your Pauly Ds,  and your Napoleon complex, and your frozen lemonade allegiances, and your red tides, and your families who can trace back five generations in their own house. And also Johnston.

You’re on notice, "Ocean State." It's a brand new year, I’ve got several hundred thousand bones to pick with you, and I'm not getting any younger, so let's get to it.