Tuesday, July 26, 2016

Evading the American Dream

Being a believer in the sovereignty of American soil, I was out patrolling the Mexican-U.S. border the other day, as a volunteer. I continually experienced the sounds of scurrying legs brushing against denim and saw bushes jiggling in the absence of wind but could see nothing amiss. Chalking it all off to an overactive imagination, I plodded on, in the fervent belief I was stopping wetbacks from illegally despoiling the primacy of America.

Later, I came upon a Mexican man surveying a piece of land along the Arizona border. I asked his name to which he answered “Manual Labor.”

I then asked “What’s going on, Manual?”

“I am surveying this piece of land along the Arizona border,” he replied.

He said nothing further, so I asked, “Why are you surveying this piece of land along the Arizona border?”

“Just because, senor.”

“Because why?

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“You mean it’s a secret?” Really interested now.

“Si, senor, a secret. We are doing something we can’t let BO’s Schmos know about.”

“Wow, it’s not a secret the government is trying to keep from us, but a secret we are trying to keep from the government? Man, oh, man, how cool is this? Tell me more, amigo.”

“Well, you see I’m surveying this piece of land along the Arizona border?”

“Yes, I do, but why are you doing such a thing, out here in the middle of nowhere, along the Arizona border.?”

“And while I am surveying this piece of land, there is another man surveying a piece of land up north.”

“You don’t say?”

“I do say.”

“Is that secret from BO’s Schmos, too?”

“Si. You see, when I’m done surveying this piece of land along the Arizona border, we are going to bring in a backhoe and dig a really big hole. Then dig a tunnel from here and go across the border underground.”

“You mean to make it easier for Mexicans to come here illegally, you’ll build an underground superhighway? But, you wouldn’t have to hide that from BO’s Schmos; they’d be all for it. Hell, they’d be down here helping you dig – bring their own shovels. Pack a lunch, make a day of it. Bring the wife and kids – show them how to break the law.”

“Oh, no, senor, eet’s nothing like that. The illegals already have tunnels of their own. BO’s Schmos say we have to leave them alone.”

“I take it you are not in favor of illegal immigration?”

“No, senor. They should be coming over the right way, like my parents did years ago. There are many people from all countries waiting to be allowed to come here. They wait for years. Yet BO’s Schmos say it’s okay to break the law, and where laws are in place against coming here illegally, BO’s Schmos say they can’t enforce the law. It’s wrong, what the schmos do, senor, but, in truth, they do little that doesn’t harm the country.”

“So you are not in favor of La Raza’s stance that claims the states of the southwest were stolen from Mexico? They want them back. Even moved into an office near BO’s so they could continually hound BO to hand them over.”

“La Raza is a bunch of wild-ass radicals. They think BO will sign an executive order in their favor, when he becomes a lame duck, which is coming right up.”

“Sounds about right. But then why are you building this tunnel? That’s a huge project. Is it a gateway to round ‘em up and herd ‘em back?” I said, smiling like I hit the nail on the head, sounding a bit like the guy on Rawhide.

“The tunnel is for the Americans who are looking for jobs and can’t find them here. We fully expect a stampede. People think that with all the Mexicans in the US, there must be mucho jobs in Mexico. Unemployment in the US is much worse than is being reported. No one seriously believes the unemployment numbers reported by the state-owned media, bunch of kiss-asses that they are.”

“Build it and they will come, huh?”

“Si. And we have to keep it quiet because BO’s Schmos would never let them leave. It would make them look bad, and they would be losing people to send checks to.”

“So, you’re building a tunnel here. What’s the project up north all about?”

“It’s a parking lot, senor, for the jobseekers. They’ll park up there, we’ll shuttle them to the tunnel. We’ll put in an escalator and have a few sidewalk cafes and snack bars. There will be a side ramp to run golf carts on, for the elderly who have to return to work.”

“Wow, Manual, it sounds really nice. No cobweb infested, dank-smelling rabbit warren tunnels for the escaping Americans, huh?”


“No, senor, and you know what else? Next year, if, God forbid, Hillary becomes president? We’ll be putting in an airport.”

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Virgins in Need of Facial Cream

The day after a crazed jihadist killed 84 people in France, El Semi Uno, our beloved leader, addressed the U.N. with a plan to defeat global terrorism. No kidding. As usual, a day late.
After nearly eight years of feckless leadership in various matters of grave concern to us, he has come through again. Remarkable.
It’s all so simple. All we have to do, says BO, is to set new goals for sustainable development that will finally put an end to poverty (something the Democrats in this country have been promising for years.). The feckless one also opined the necessity for providing global healthcare (dare we pray for an expansion of BOcare?) and promoting a fine education for all the wee little ones (perhaps we might refer to the system in current use in the U.S.).  BO also stated the necessity of equality for all people – including women, of course. Oh, yeah, and save the planet from climate change (formerly known by its more appropriate name, global warming, of which there ain’t no such thing. Hasn’t been for nearly 20 years. IT’S A HOAX, FOLKS, AND WAS PROVEN TO BE JUST THAT! ALL THE CRAP THEY’VE TAUGHT YOUR KIDS IN SCHOOL IS PROPAGANDA. (Some of you might remember that this is the same bunch of shitheads who called for an ice age back in the 1970s.)
All of this is, of course, pure BO Bull. The message, not so cleverly camouflaged: All the world’s ills will magically vanish when we submit to one global power – one presumes he means with him as King. (I’ve never been able to convince myself that BO will simply walk away from the presidency when his term is up. More sane individuals than this president has lamented the necessity of leaving the position of the Most Powerful Man in the World. Leave on Monday; Tuesday morning you’re an average Joe. Got to be a hard egg to swallow. Serious adjustments are necessary.)
“Americans,” says our leader to the U.N., “should stop being so selfish and self-centered and surrender themselves to the common good.
“The hatred and violence of a few ultimately is no match for the love and decency of people of good will and compassion. The world needs to work with our Muslim partners to push back against hateful ideologies that twist and distort Islam, a religion of peace and compassion.”
Excuse me! This from a guy who wouldn’t know an enemy if one walked up and kissed his ring.
This from a guy whose ideal religion forces into memory Orlando, San Bernardino and the Fort Hood massacre.
Yes, one must give the prevaricator-in-chief some credit for having nice ideas but grit our teeth at the probability of ulterior motivation. To speak in platitudes of ending poverty, providing healthcare for all, promoting a workable education system for the poor of the world, and making everyone on earth equal (especially as to wealth) surely sounds like the dreams of one who “smoked a bit” in high school.
It all sounds so time-consuming and tedious – all that work, and where would the money come from (we Americans can easily surmise the remedy here, can we not?) It struck me while reading an item on WND.com that if we’re serious about ending terrorism (and I’m surprised El Semi Uno so much as recognized the existence of such people), there is a much more surefire way to do it.
According to a Koranic scholar from Canada an error of translation occurred that I am willing to bet would at least reduce the incidents of terrorism in the world, if not abolish it altogether. The scholar claims that the word used in the Koran for virgin is really the word for raisin. Some mistake, right?
Now, just imagine that you’re this big, bad jihad guy. There’s blood in your eye and you’re ready to blow something up. You do, however, lack the courage of your convictions and have few guts for confronting even unarmed adults, though you have no qualms about strapping on a bomb and climbing on a school bus. With visions of delectable virgins dancing wildly in your bean and shouting ‘Allahu Akbar’, you blow up the bus and all the children. You feel all warm and giggly as you snuggle into the arms of Allah, expecting your due – the promised 72 virgins!
But, alas, there has been a terrible mistake. Where beautiful, curvy, warm and arduous female flesh is expected, you are handed six dozen shriveled grapes.
“This is preposterous,” you howl. “I am a jihad warrior, the scourge of the world, feared by all! I blew up a whole school bus full of kids, and my 72 virgins look like dried up goat dung.
“Anybody going to tell me what’s going on?"

Let me know what you think, but I’m pretty sure we’re onto something here.

Monday, July 11, 2016

BO and Olde Mom Hubbard

                The following is an Oldie But Goodie. A nice lady named Susan emailed to request "the                   piece about Old Mother Hubbard and Obama." I had a bit of a time finding it; it turned up in               my book, The Newshawk Reports. Susan, I must say, you have some memory.
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                 I’ve decided, after long and arduous contemplation of the issue, there are good points to                 liberalism. I’m just not smart enough to figure out what they are.
     One of the problems is that liberalism is too extreme. Once something takes hold, it grows and grows and grows, ad nauseum. Take the war on poverty, for example. It started with liberals saying they really wanted to help the poor (which is an admirable goal), and, of course, blamed conservatives for poverty. However, through the centuries, it has always been mostly Christian conservatives who have lent helping hands to the less fortunate. They just weren’t as ready to steal the money from others to do it. They did it with their own money.
     One of the poorest people in history was Old Mother Hubbard. She was so poor, a poem was written about her and, now, millions flock to her skirts, a testament to the attraction of being indigent and having realAmericans pay one’s way through life. No rock star, no athlete ever had a larger assemblage of groupies than Old Mother Hubbard.
     Most everyone knows of the poetry written about her: Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard to get her poor doggie a bone. But when she got there, the cupboard was bare, and so the poor doggie got none. Now that’s a sad story, don’t you think?
     But was it really written with poor people in mind? No, it wasn’t. The poor are never in anybody’s mind. It is actually a parody on the attempt of King Henry VIII to procure a divorce from Catherine of Aragon in order to marry Anne Boleyn. (Yeah, I know you think I’m wacked, but it’s true!) Henry needed the approval of the Catholic Church to pull it off and had given the task of negotiations with the pope to Cardinal Wolsey. The cardinal, as we know, failed (otherwise there would be no Protestants) and, consequently, fell into disfavor with Henry. The failure proved a career ender for Wolsey, who was forced to relinquish his sumptuous living quarters and his mistresses, among other valued possessions. So the cardinal became poor and became Mother Hubbard in the famous attempt at poetry. The cupboard referred to the church, the doggie was King Henry, the bone a divorce. So Cardinal Wolsey went to the church to get King Henry a divorce. When he got there, there was no divorce, so Henry couldn’t have one. Make sense now?
     Of course giving our money away in welfare benefits is a corner post in the long fence of liberalism. It is one of the issues that defines the movement, like abortion. Talk of repealing Roe v. Wade will bring he who speaks thusly looks of thinly-veiled suspicion of an ADHD diagnosis.
      Years ago the poor didn’t need liberals to get by, nor would they have accepted too much of their help. Now, the welfare rats scurry in from miles around to feast upon the plump cheese of other people’s money. The few who needed help getting by have become the many who think they have a right to eat for free. Is this where the motto Live Free or Die comes from?
     Meanwhile the country is drowning in red ink. As one might expect it’s the more liberal states that are in the deepest trouble, mostly because of entitlements. I have not heard one governor, not one, of a blue state suggest cutting back on handing out welfare checks to help his or her state balance the books. I’ve wondered if this guy Obama isn’t behind it. His liberalness would not allow a reduction in welfare. Liberals want more of it, not less.  It makes them feel needed and loved and electable.
     Could there be an end to the waste in sight? Let us again wax poetic. What if the president was Mother Hubbard, the cupboard was congress and bones were money? Then: Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard to get more welfare bones. When he bent over, he found that the voters had a few bones of their own.

     That might work. Whadya think?

Monday, July 4, 2016

The Rusting of the Red, White and Blue


                                                                                                                                                                 Today is the 240th birthday of the United States of America. I wanted to write something about that. I thought and thought and slowly a vision entered my mind.
I saw a brand-new, spiffy sedan sitting in a driveway. It was the Fifties, and the driveway sat in front of a cookie-cutter, small ranch house in the heart of America. The car was red and blue with white-wall tires, well-loved colors across the land. The Big War was over, G.I.s had returned home, after fighting to preserve freedom from those who would steal it. Everyone, well almost everyone, was happy; the future was bright; things were good. We older folks were much younger, healthier, better looking, and we had our lives before us. The car stood shining in the sunlight, proud, positive, hopeful for the future.
Then came the Sixties. There were many disruptions in the Sixties, riots, bombings, an unpopular war, drugs became the rage. This was the advent of the Age of Wackoism., the likes of Jane Fonda, Black Panthers and SDS. The Sixties were a raucous time. I enjoyed the Sixties for the wide-openness, the freedom; there seemed to be fewer inhibitions and acceptance of differences was high. Haight-Asbury was a bummer, though. Too many really bad druggies. (Sometimes I wonder if any of these putzes ever recovered.) The radicals were turning the country on its ear. The grill of the car sagged on one end as it showed its concern for the future. As the Sixties ended, it looked around, shuddered just a bit  But all seemed well, only the red, white and blue paint was starting to fade.
The Seventies brought protests against the Viet Nam War, American soldiers decried as baby killers, corruption in the White House, the resignation of a president. Young people stupidly shouted the virtues of Lenin and Mao, as if they really knew what they were shouting about. Anything other than what we had was good (exactly the liberal agenda of today). I rejected all this crap. I had read enough history to know that whatever was wrong with the country (if anything was truly wrong or we were dealing with a bunch of mongrels having a hissy fit.)  I decided to just go on about my business – got married, went to school, started a family. Watching politicians for a good chuckle became a hobby. But, silently, the car wept. Here were people using the freedoms guaranteed by the Constitution in order to destroy it. The car looked up and saw storm clouds mounting. A quick check told it things weren’t good in the land; an evil force was showing its ugly head. The upholstery was starting to tear and there was a ping in the engine.
Then the Eighties swept into history. A president entered office with the right antidote to remedy the dreadful mess left behind by the previous administration, i.e., the Misery Index. The Misery Index was a way to keep track of how bad the economy was doing: Add together interest rates and the unemployment rate = Misery Index.. Ronaldus Magmus (Reagan) lowered taxes and the economy rebounded splendidly – there were several years of 6, 7 percent growth. Jobs opened up, people went to work, paid their bills, spent money and life, again, was good. The car looked around from the driveway and felt good about the U.S.A. The principles the country was built on were working, as they always did when the politicians left things alone. The car thumbed a headlight at the Maoists and the other pinkos. The tires were nearly bare, but there was tread for the long run. Yet an ominous underbelly was becoming more evident as the Eighties wended away. Rust spots were showing and the chrome was peeling away.
When we entered the Nineties it was evident to some that the country was securely in the hands of those who would do it harm. Reagan’s successor, George H.W. Bush, raised taxes after promising for months, “Read my lips, no new taxes!” He was bounced in the next election, but his successor, Bill Clinton, strutted his way into the White House and found more ways to embarrass the office than there are provisions in the tax code. Mr. Embarrassing, nonetheless, oversaw a tremendous economic upsurge during the Nineties, which he will gladly take credit for, but happened in spite of him. Nothing, not even his huge tax increase in ’93, could put a damper on the burgeoning computer age. The glitz and glitter of the dotcom era did much to cloak the disastrous financial turmoil just ahead. Most of us did not see this coming, as we foolishly took our eyes off the rats in Washington and allowed them to lie, cheat and steal the country into a later recession. The car, now very worried, shuddered uncontrollably. The bumpers and doors were falling off now, the grill hanging dangerously near the ground. Someone had kicked out the headlights.
Enter the new century. We had a new president, and hopes were high. But anyone expecting a resurgence of the American spirit and the can-do way of life that forged a great America, would be disappointed. Nine-eleven would change our world forever.  During the next decade the country would rot from within. It became very evident the worse thieves in the country wore three-piece suits and called themselves “investment” bankers and who contrived to bury the country in debt. Most of us could only sit by and watch as the stewards of the republic destroyed our way of life. We would scratch our heads and blubber, but we have no power, except at the ballet box. The next election would show that was definitely not the answer. As the first decade of the 2000s bumped into the next, we knew we had a big problem in Washington – worse than anytime before. The car crumpled further, slowly sinking to its axles, all its tires blew, while it wondered  how far away the junkyard could be. The paint was gone now, the upholstery all done, bumpers and grill had fallen off long ago. The windshield was cracked, so its vision became blurred, the ping in the engine was a loud knock.

It had been a mostly downward run since the Big War, and America’s car was barely running. It had been falling apart for a quite some time. But it had weathered the storm the best it could – then this last bunch ripped off the hubcaps.
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AS YOUR PRESIDENT I WILL RESURRECT OLD RED, WHITE AND BLUE AND MAKE AMERICANS PROUD AGAIN. i DON'T KNOW ABOUT YOU, BUT I DON'T FEEL PROUD UNDER THE NARCISSIST-IN-CHIEF. QUITE THE CONTRARY.

Monday, June 27, 2016

You Didn't Build It, But Will They Tax It?

I was out one day hammering nails and sawing boards with no particular project in mind, when a soft voice whispered, “Build it and they will come.”
Build what? The voice did not say and when I asked, there was no answer. Then I asked who will come. Still no response.
Deciding I was being treated to a figment, I went on with my doing-nothing-in-particular project. Hammerin’ and sawin’. Hammerin’ and sawin’. Soon the voice returned: “Build it and they will come,” it said.
“Build what?” But there was no answer.
“Who will come?” No answer. I was flummoxed.
Yet I was curious.
I knew that to build something, a government permit was required. So I went to the court house.
“Whaddya need?” growled a faceless bureaucrat.
“I need a permit so I can build it,” says I.
“Build what?”
“It.”
“Why do you want to build an it?”
”So they will come.”
“Who are they?”
“Ones that come when you build it.”
The faceless creature shrugged and began filling out a form.
“How much is this going to cost me?” I asked.
“For liberal builders of its, the fee is a dollar. Since I know you to be a conservative, the charge is a million bucks.”
“What if I were building a church?”
“Two million.”
“What if the ones who are coming are illegal aliens?”
“No charge.”
“Oh, I see. Interesting.”
So I went home and began building it. When I had completed half of it, a fat chick wearing a hard hat drove onto my lawn in a chartreuse backhoe.
“What do you think you’re doing, mister,” she yelled. “I order you to stop what you think you’re doing, right now, and back away!”
“Building it,” shrugging in a way that asks what else I thought I might be doing.
“You can’t build it there.”
“How come. It’s my property.”
“Not really. But you’re interfering with a migratory path for gay-bo fly-by-nights swishing through on the way to the Swap Spit and Shit joint on the next block.”
“They’re not the ones who’ll be coming, I hope.”
“There’s no way of knowing; they have a way of showing up where they’re not invited.”
“So what am I going to do with this half of it?”
“Tear it down and move it over six inches.”
“Oh, my.”
“By the way, that’s American pine you’re using. Exchange it for Himalayan mulberry, and you’ll be good to go.”
“I thought Himalayan mulberry was endangered.”
“Only until you make a suitable contribution to the democrats.”
“I see.”
After months of toil, I finished it and was standing, hammer and saw in hand, admiring my work. A tear of pride emerged from my eye and slipped down my cheek as I thought back over the difficult months it took to finish it. Government inspections, government regulations, insanely high prices for materials caused by suppliers having to deal with Chinese ripoff artists, this fee, that fee, and all the hoopla that goes with building it. I stood massaging my aching muscles and blistered hands, when El Semi Uno arrived in an 18-car motorcade and walked over, a satisfied smirk on his face.
“So, Newshawk, you’ve finished it, have you?”
”I have. Its quite a thing I‘ve built, isn’t it?”
“Whadya mean? You didn’t build it.”
“Oh yeah, who did then?”
“Government, of course.”
“I didn’t see government up there hammerin’ nails and sawin’ boards.”
A person in a government uniform walked up and dropped a letter in my mailbox. I picked it out and looked at it. Sure enough, it was a letter from the government – my property tax bill.
“There you go,” said El Semi Uno, “our bill for building it.”

REMEMBER WHEN EL SEMI UNO SAID TO THE NATION’S BUSINESS OWNERS THAT “THEY DIDN’T BUILD IT” (THEIR OWN BUSINESSES)? I CAN PROMISE YOU THAT AS YOUR PRESIDENT I WILL NEVER SAY SUCH A THING TO YOUR FACE. AFTER ALL, THERE MAY COME A TIME WHEN THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT WILL NEED TO MOVE IN WITH YOU.

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I HAVEN’T HIT YOU GUYS UP IN AWHILE, BUT YOU’VE FOUND YOU HAVE A LIKING FOR THIS STYLE OF WRITING, THERE IS A BOOK AVAILABLE ON AMAZON AND BARNES AND NOBLE CALLED “THE NEWSHAWK REPORTS: THE WRITING OF A POLITICALLY INCORRECT NEWSBIRD.” HAVE A LOOK, MAYBE GET A COPY; LET ME KNOW YOUR OPINION AT FVOSS70@LIVE.COM.

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Just Who is the D.I.C.K.S. Head?

“Hey, Dad. Where did this rash on my arm come from?” asked Dodda.
“Oh, my,” said Fadda. “It must have come from that bush over in the Rats yard.”
“Why do you say that? We have a bush just like it here in our yard.”
“Because it just can’t be our fault. That guy’s a Rat; we , on the other hand, are Dingalings. Dingalings In the Concrete Kite Society, to be completely correct.”
“D.I.C.K.S.?  I think I know about dicks, but what do you mean by a Concrete Kite Society?” asked Dodda.
“We’re a bunch of Dingalings that sit around, come up will really wacked out ideas, to help change the country, but we just can’t get our ideas to fly. Sometimes we can’t even get them off the ground.”
“Like a Concrete Kite-or a lead balloon. I get it. But back to why you think my poison oak is the fault of that Rat, as you call him.”
“It may not be him, it just can’t be us. We can’t be responsible for anything.”
“I guess I just don’t see the problem, no one is perfect …”
“Except us; we must appear to be perfect. We must appear to be the answer to all of America’s problems, explained Fadda.”
”But no one can possibly have all of the answers, dear,” said Mudda, who had just arrived. “ Especially people referred to as Dingalings by the Rats.”
“That’s why we are forced to lie so much.”
“Yeah, we’ve all noticed that. Dingalings lie about the economy, terrorists, gun control, just about everything, don’t they?” asked Dodda.
“Well, yeah, it’s that the Rats keep contradicting what we say and standing in the way of what we want to accomplish for the country. And the maddening part is they make so damned much sense.”
“And they don’t have to lie, do they? By the way, who’s the boss Dingaling, you know, the D.I.C.K.S. head?”
“Oh, there’s a mess of them around who think of themselves that way, but the real boss is a guy named BO who lives in Washington, D.C.”
“He’s the real D.I.C.K.S. head?”
“Oh, yeah, and he’s just wonderful. His big project is shoving gun control down the throats of the American people, going through the U.N., in order to take future attempts at legislation away from the U.S. Congress. It’ll be international law.”
“Sounds like a big deal.”
“Oh, it is. It is. It’s something only big D.I.C.K.S. can accomplish.”
“But won’t the Rats and maybe some the Dingalings register their disapproval at the polls in November, by withholding their votes from Dingalings,” Mudda wanted to know.
“That’s why we can’t be blamed for anything. Everything has to be the Rats’ fault. Everything.”
“Even Orlando?”
“Especially Orlando!”
But how? Rats weren’t even there!”
“But they support the 2nd Amendment. We Dingalings have to do everything we can to make sure our D.I.C.K.S. head policies don’t take the rap for the deaths of those people in Orlando, or any place else, for that matter.
“That why that bush in our yard can’t be blamed for my poison oak?”

Monday, June 13, 2016

Adults in a Crisis Situation

It seems like every time you turn around there is another emotional issue involving children. Books and magazines fill stores and libraries. Entire college curricula exist to address the woes of young people. Teen pregnancy, drug abuse, poverty, homosex, transsex, extramarital sex, no marriage sex  have become so common, they’ve melded into the social tapestry. Juvenile crime continues to be a serious problem. We can sit for hours and discuss the problems of youth at length, but truth be known, the problems of adults also need to be aired. We have our problems too (sniff).
First of all, it needs to be recognized that adults also suffer from pregnancy, drug abuse, poverty, crime and of course all manner of psychosexual crap. Yes, it’s true, adult women also become pregnant, and grownup men, for the most part, are responsible for making them that way. In fact, the pregnancy rate for older women has risen over the years. Statistics show that nearly as many married women become pregnant as unmarried ones. Alarming, yes, but unfortunately true. And in case you haven’t heard, the divorce rate for grownups approaches that of younger couples. Grownups are even known to use dope, drink booze and stay out late at night, showing the stress of a troubled culture.
All of this clearly indicates that adults are indeed in a crisis situation. Curious as to what might be done to help grownups, I consulted a post-puberty behavioral social  psychologist, Dr. Rorschach Nudnick. I asked her opinion about the problems facing today’s adults.
“The problem,” she said, “is that grownups do not feel their children understand them. Grownups crave attention from their kids, but the kids are too preoccupied with their own lives to spend time with them. Kids hang out in clich├ęs of people like them, to the exclusion of grownups. This is very damaging to the adult psyche. Grownups begin to feel unwanted, unloved and depressed. Men don’t do well at work and women are known to frequently bubble over in the beauty parlor. Parents begin hanging out with other troubled adults doing doobies, drinking spirited beverages and actually watching cable news television, especially CNN and MSNBC, havens for particularly disturbed adults.”
The doctor went on to say the dissolution of the family is inevitable. Grownups just
can’t seem to hold it together.
“Most authorities on the subject agree that kids are directly responsible for their parents destructive behavior. Grownups become disoriented and insecure without their children’s wisdom to guide them.”
Nudnick went on to say that without their children available to serve as examples of acceptable social behavior, parents simply do not know how to act in responsible fashion. Adults require a model of proper “mall” etiquette among other serious social issues. They need good examples. Children do, however, accept some of the blame, but only in a tongue-in-cheek way: “Yeah, yeah. Blah. Blah. We know all about the problems our parents are having, but the problems are theirs. We got other stuff to do.”
 To get parents back on the path of healthy self esteem kids must commit to spending more time at home with them; grownups need to know they are loved and wanted. They need consolation after a tough day at work or in the unemployment line. And kids must learn to discipline their parents when they are naughty. Children are far too lax in dealing with the behavioral tendencies of the older generation. Grownups need discipline, they need a structured environment; it is essential in showing they are loved.
“The bottom line is these two vastly diverse groups need to find some common ground,” says Nudnick.  “Perhaps adult males, besides plumbers, should begin to wear their pants real low and show that they too can be immodest. Maybe adult women could wear short tops that display fat, flabby waistlines, just as so many young women do. Adult men and women need to hang out in malls after work and on weekends.
“A huge problem which is just emerging,” Dr. Nudnick continued, “is differentiating the two groups. More and more, it is becoming increasingly difficult to define them.”
“Do you mean,” asked I, “that kids are becoming more adult and adults are becoming more teen-like.”
“You’ve got it half-right, Newshawk, “the kids are staying uninvolved and immature and the adults are becoming more uninvolved and immature. Perhaps the problem will solve itself: We will all become kids again!”


I want you to know that as your President I will work with both houses of Congress to legislate against the problems of adults. (There is no sense in troubling Washington politicians with the problems of children – what the heck, they are too young to vote!)

The Flip Side