Google+ Followers

Friday, October 31, 2014

U.S. Leaders Seance With Alinsky

It seems that almost every word uttered by a Democrat in these days before the elections is untrue. This is truly the most undignified, lowlife form of political animal I have seen at work in my lifetime. It is unbelievable that nearly half of the population deems these cretins worthy to lead the country. But indeed they do. Hopefully, though, not for long. And something is terribly amiss in the psyches of their supporting cast, who have shunted aside all considerations of decency to follow, nay promote, the candidacies of such despicable politicians.
This in mind, I hopped in the Fredmobile and headed toward Shamalot. As I drew near the Sodom of the Potomac, B.S. (brown stuff) gradually began clogging the streets and whizzing off my tires as I sliced through the crap on the way to Crapitol Hill. As you know the Fred is a “brown” car and runs on B.S., so I gassed up. B.S. is free in Shamalot and all I had to do was shovel it in. As I looked round I had to marvel at the depth of brown stuff sloshing in the streets. Passing cars caused two-foot waves to wash up on the sidewalks keeping desperate citizens dancing, as it were, to keep from being inundated in political crap. It deepened mightily as I approached Crapitol Hill.
I had no idea where I was going. BO was out tooling around in his 747. It was rumored he was in “conference” with several Krauthammer types, a diagnosis was expected soon. No one cared – no one would believe the verdict anyway; such is the nature of cretins and their repugnance for the truth. I decided I would pay a visit to Liberal Darling Pelosi, to see what she was up to. If one is going to visit cretins, it’s best to start at the top. I thought it odd that I strode right through the halls of Congress unchallenged. Nary an SS man in sight. My unasked question was answered when I passed a bulletin board announcing that a bevy of Columbian prostitutes had been spotted over on K Street.
I found Nancy Pelosi’s office and walked in. There was no receptionist at the desk but I heard voices coming from a room in the back. I knocked, and saying hello as though I was expected, opened the door. I don’t know what the smell was; something sweet and mildly sickening, a cloud of it hovered above. Below, in a clatch around a small table, all holding hands, sat our government leaders, summoning spirits from beyond.
Nancy Pelosi said: “Oh, for crying out loud. Look what the cat dragged in. Newshawk. How did you get in here? I left strict instructions to obstruct your entry.”
“Yeah, so did I,” said Sleazy Harry Reid with a grimace.
“Me, too,” said Airhead Joe Biden.
“Just a second, I’ll have him removed,” said Valerie Jarrett, rising from her chair.
“I just thought I’d stop by and find out the secret to running the country into the ground, that’s all,” said I.
“Let him stay … and learn,” said the house minority leader, a know-it-all look setting  her botox aglow.
They again joined hands and began to hum. It was sort of an ahm sound. I thought perhaps they were trying to summon Buddha. Another sound emerged from the depths. I wasn’t sure what I was hearing at first, but mingled with the ahm came an OO-oo-oo, OO-oo-oo. Those around table stopped ahming to listen. Very slowly, a specter materialized – a whitish thing that quivered. All eyes were glued on the thing. I thought what passed for a face bore a strange resemblance to Saul Alinsky
“OO-oo-oo,” said Saul’s spirit, “OO-oo-oo. Helloo-OO-oo, Weird Nancy and Sleazy Harry and Airhead Joe and Behind-the-scenes Valerie. I am the ghost of Saul Alinsky and I’ve come to congratulate you for the wonderful job you’ve done ruining this once great nation.”
“Thank you, your Majesty,” Nancy Pelosi said curtsying to the spook.
“Yeah, thanks, Saul,” said the Airhead, the irreverence not lost on the King of Radicalism.
“And to what do we owe the privilege of your visit, Sire?” asked Valerie Jarrett offering a sweet but somehow nasty smile.
Sleazy Harry said nothing, just sat staring at the quavering white thing.
“Where is BO-oo-oo?” he asked. “Out flying around, I suppose. No matter. He’s not needed to continue our work. But I wanted to congratulate him for that wonderful line about American exceptionalism. Man, eh, eh, that was classic!”
“Well, aren’t you going to tell us what the fuhrer, er, I mean the president had to say, pray tell?” asked Airhead Joe.
“Of course. After all, it will almost certainly be presented on a plaque in the BO Library, someday. He said Americans are proud that the borders are open to ebola patients who come here for treatment “
“Oh, wow …” cooed the Airhead.
“Well said …” said Sleazy Harry with a grin.
“Boy, he sure knows how to shovel it, doesn’t he?” replied Nancy, clapping silently.
“What do you think about your boss, Ms. Jarrett?”
“Oh … him? He’s well-spoken and he does what he’s told.”
“I see,” replied the shimmering guru of hate speech, giving the White House watchdog a leer of mistrust.
“By the way,” he continued, “I wanted to congratulate you all for all the crazy radical crap you’re doing. It’s working nicely. The country is so screwed up, it’s hard to recognize it anymore. Isn’t political correctness a treat? Nancy, that thing you threw out about Hamas being a humanitarian organization was beautiful. Too bad you’re so nutsy, no one believed it.
“And Sleazy, I must commend you for the power play against the rancher Cliven Bundy and then to brand him a racist for making a few remarks about race in America was brilliant. Just brilliant. And your continued tirade against the Koch brothers is magnificent. Keep up the good work, Sleazy. It’s too bad your reputation for corruptness makes you such an unreliable source. But if you repeat a lie often enough … you know …
“And Airhead Joe’s here. My, my. Except for your occasional impromptu and sometimes super stupid remarks, you don’t add much to the cause, do you, Joe?
“And Valerie Jarrett, nice to meet you. You are some piece of work, doing all BO’s thinking for him. You say he does what he’s told; does that mean he gets his marching orders from you?”
Valerie smiled slightly and shrugged like a high school kid when asked if he wants a can of beer – “Idunno.”
BO enters and stops short at the sight of the great guru of madness.
“Lord Saul? Is that you, Lord Saul?”
“Whatter you doing here? How’d you get here? Why are you dressed that way?”
“Well, if it ain’t ole El Uno himself, the Anointed One. I never thought you’d amount to anything, never coming to class the way you did, but you’ve done admirably making a mess of this country, I’ll say that.
“I especially wanted to commend you on the masterful dishonesty displayed in getting that awful health care bill passed. ‘You can keep your doctor,’ ha, ha, ‘reduce premium payments by $2500 a year’, that’s great stuff. ‘Ebola will never get into America.’ Man, you can tell some good ones.”
“Well, thanks, Lord Saul, er, your Majesty,” said the president, bowing deeply and expertly from the waist.
“E-e-e-e-easy, on the adulation, boy. No need to keep kissing asses. Say, I’m planning a new book. It’s to be named, “How to Slide Off the Planet Once I’ve Screwed Everything Up So Bad, the Whole World is Out to String Me Up.” Seeing as it’s about you, I thought you’d like to help me write it.”
“But … but y-you’re dead!”
“Yeah, I know. Ever hear of a ghost writer? Eh, eh.”

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Discussing the Color of Your Vote

I was sitting having an adult beverage with my old friend Cornelia Nutsky, an old ditsy, liberal chick affectionately named Cornnut. As she does every couple of years Cornnut bothers herself over the upcoming elections.
“I fret that I cannot decide for whom to cast my precious vote in the November races, Newshawk. It’s so freaking flabbergasting.”
“Do you mean you’re actually concerned about the issues this time around, Corny, since you and your kind so expertly put that communist in the White House for two terms?” I asked. Cornnut was one of crowd of women voters with no sense of the issues and uses the same philosophy to elect state and national leaders as she does picking winners at the racetrack: If the name of the horse sounds good – sexy, glamorous – she bets on it; that failing to bring a win, place or show, the colors of the rider’s stable would have to do.
“Oh, heavens, no, nothing so boring as that business of the issues. I can’t decide on a favorite color for this election cycle.” Like I said, Cornnut is definitely one of those we serious voters wish would stay home on election night.
“You and half the women in the country act as though you’re picking furniture for the living room, rather than representatives to lead the country – if that’s what they’re doing these days. If you’re disgusted with black, vote white, whatever fits your color scheme.”
“Well,” she said thoughtfully twirling a curl hanging near her ear around her finger as she spoke, “black and white are opposite colors. Do you think they would be opposite in the administration of their affairs?”
“No, they would be similar, but they won’t fall into your color scheme. The color in vogue for state and national politicians anymore is pink trending to red.”
This produced a rumple to form across Corny’s brow. Politics always confuses her so.
“Are you implying that Barack Obama, our wonderful president, is pink, Newshawk?” a thoroughly disgusted look on her face.
“No, of course not. Barack Obama is red, through and through. And if you think the man is so wonderful, this wonderful man people like you voted for twice, explain why he’s trying so hard to bring an Ebola epidemic to America.”
“Oh, foof. He’s doing no such thing.”
“Obama, the wonderful president who’s shepherding in millions of Central Americans to further strain strained resources.”
“Oh, Newshawk, you really don’t believe those lies, do you? You just don’t like him because he’s black.”
“And that’s why you do like him?”
“Well, if I vote for a white candidate, my friends will think I’m racist. It’s just not done!”
“What if there was, say, a yellow person running for office. Would you vote for him or her?”
“That’s a ridiculous question. There are no Asians running in this election.”
“Why did automatically think of Asian people when I said yellow. I’ve never seen a yellow Asian.”
“Well, I …”
“And I’ve never seen a red Indian, nor have I seen very many black black persons; most Negroes are a shade of brown. As a matter of fact most Indians are brown, as are most Latinos. Odd how the darker your skin is the less people think of you, white folks spend beaucoup bucks every year to tan into a darker color, and many have a bias against the skin color they strive to acquire. ”
“I guess that prejudice is why we ladies feel sorry for black people and feel we must vote for them whenever the opportunity arises,” she said with an I told you so smirk.
“Yeah, well, you can see where that line of thinking got us. Just promise me you won’t vote for any green people.”
“Oh, my,” her hand rising to clasp her chin, “I’ve heard there were such things as little green men … but …
“Not from Mars, you twit. Greens from here on Earth. You know, the people who claim to be saving the earth by destroying it.”
“You don’t mean it!?” she fairly screamed.
“Oh, but I do. I do. Deep down, well maybe not so deep, these people are communists. What we of the Aware Class refer to as Pinkos and Red‘uns.”
“Oh, my, more colors to pick from! How intriguing,” a glow of interest lighting her face.
“We people in the know call them Watermelon People - green on the outside, red on the inside. The politicians they pay off to pass their crap legislation are the pits.”
“Figuratively or lit …”
“But the pits are black. Isn’t that racist?” Continuing on in delirious assessment of color politics. “What do these Watermelon People really want?”
“They’re among the worst of the bad. Their dream is to herd humans off to concentration camps in the deserts and some of the forests – ever notice how much land is owned by the federal government – and turn over every place else to the animal world, apes, monkeys, rare bugs no one cares about. Just like in Shamalot.”
“There are apes in Washington? Oh, my. I didn’t know …”
“The place is full of political apes of all colors. A really despicable bunch.”
“How did so many political apes get to Washing … er, Shamalot?”
“We voted them in – or rather, you did.”
“And we became a pink – or red – country how?”
“Camouflage. There are few politicians in the crapital who are pink or red on the outside. But a huge number are pink or red on the inside. They didn’t tell us while they were campaigning what color they really are on the inside. We voted for what we thought they were.”
“Those lying bastards!” she hissed.
“And it’s legal for politicians to lie, did you know that?”
“No, but it doesn’t surprise me. Liars passing a law making it legal for them to lie. That’s obscene!”
“And it’s legal for them to steal, too. Did you know they’ve make it legal for them to pocket any donations not used in campaigning?”
“Those thieving bastards!” After thinking for a moment, she blurted, “So a politician, black or white, or even green or brown, can campaign insisting they are true blue, but could really be pink or red on the inside because they are too yellow to tell the truth?”
“That about says it all. We vote for what we think we’re getting but usually get stuck with a turkey.”
“I’d like to make them black and blue,” pounding a bony fist into a palm. “So what do we do? Are there any good colors to vote for?”
“Nope, only good ideas. Voters have to start listening to what the ones on the stump are really saying, and stop caring what they look like.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
“Boy, Newshawk, you sure know how to take the fun out of voting.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Smart ass.”

Should you wish to further avail yourself of this kind of writing, there is a book, The Newshawk Reports: The Writings of a Politically Incorrect Newsbird, available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. This book is tops on my list of Perfect Christmas Presents for the Person Who Has Everything and is in the Market for a Book to Keep on the Toilet Tank. I hope you will take advantage of this kind offer.

Sunday, October 26, 2014

Keeping an Eye on the Democrats

Some of you may remember my experiments into the science of body morpherizing. I now have the incredible ability to change into Newsfly, a common, ordinary eight-legger with a knack for reading, watching football games, and writing blogs. With election day drawing near, I morphed in Newsfly and winged it to Shamalot. Of particular interest was what shenanigans the liberal democrats were embroiled in, to try to get themselves re-elected.
The logical first stop for a conservative newsbug to make contact with political corruption in the United States is, as you might have guessed, to the office of the president. I winged in to see BO but a look at his datebook told me he was cruising golf courses in Air Force One.
With nothing going on in the Ovoid Space, I decided to hang around Shamalot and find some newsworthy material for our area newspaper. I maintained my flyoid persona and  buzzed about in a happy-go-lucky way, trying to appear and act like any other newsfly, on a typical day at work It’s actually fun flitting about, being annoying, particularly in Shamalot, a place in which annoying creatures are everywhere and annoyance itself a high form of  philosophy, much studied and practiced. After a while, tired of landing on noses and ears in the park then quick flitting off before being smooshed on someone’s forehead, I soared off into the countryside.
It was just becoming evening and house lights and street lamps dotted the landscape. I landed on a bench along a walkway through a park. There was a half a tuna on rye and a half-full Coke can lying there, so I stopped for dinner. The tuna, I considered as I chewed, needed less mayonnaise and a little more French’s mustard, definitely more relish. I had just ducked into the can of Coke for a slurp when all hell broke loose. Some rotten kid picked up the can, shook it and, pretending my drink was a hand grenade, lobbed it into the bushes, making an explosive sound with his mouth when it landed. I thought of another place the can could be put, before lapsing into unconsciousness.
I awoke hours later to the sound of people moving through the bushes. That is, they looked like people but they were somehow different. They were dressed in everyday clothes, but the clothes were torn and ragged. They reeked of a rottenish, earthy smell. The creatures walked slowly, trancelike, like there wasn’t a thought in their heads and seemed to all be heading in one general direction. Curious, I followed. Buzzing along high above, dodging tree trunks and branches, I was amazed at the number of zomboidal creatures moving ominously toward Shamalot. Puzzlement rumpled my flyiod brow. Then I saw the guys with shovels digging in a nearby cemetery. As with most men in the company of shovels, they spent most their time leaning on the tools and BSing.
“Hey, boss, just what the heck are we doin’ out here in the middle of the night diggin’ up bodies?” asked a particularly adept shovel holder-upperer.
“Never mind, just keep diggin’,” says the boss. “You welfare guys don’t move a lot of dirt on a shovel-ready job, do you? The public was told by our presidential type there would be shovel-ready jobs. But he never said when This is them.”
“But where do all these zomboidals come from?”
“We kept ‘em warehoused under the ground, secret-like, whence nobody kin find ‘em. Everybody knows they’re around; they just don’t know where to look.”
“But why are they here? What use kin half-dead peoploids have?”

“Look, dummy, be careful what you say ‘bout  these folks. These is VIPs, every one, though they come up a bit short of looking like it.”
“VIPs? Yer kiddin’, right? C’mon, who are they – really?” said the confused, sort-of-worker.
“These here is dead VIPS. We dig ‘em up every now and then to vote for Democrats in important elections. This year, with the midterms looking’ bad for his partymates, the presidential type wants to show he’s actually created a couple of shovel-ready jobs. So we hauled out the shovels and we’re diggin’ up some voters for the Democrats earlier than usual. We’ll herd ‘em over to the voting booths early next week, so they kin cast their lot, then we’ll bury ‘em till next ‘lection.”
“O-o-oh-h, I get it!”
“Pretty neat, huh?”

Monday, October 20, 2014

Cosmo Limps Into His Future

     That handsome gent to your left is Cosmo, our black Lab. I wrote about him on a couple of occasions awhile back, about how he stole the cat's food and devised ways to trick us into thinking that's not what he was doing. I had decided I wouldn't write about him anymore, thinking it not a good fit for a political blog space, but I changed my mind again - maybe just once more. Besides, I'm dead sick of reading and writing about politics; I need a break Continuously writing about criminals is a very trying pastime.
     One of the reasons I decided to talk about Cosmo again is I received a couple of phone calls - one from a local woman, Susan, who enjoyed my stories about him from before and had been waiting patiently for another to come along; another from a woman, Brenda, in the Binghamton area with the same thoughts. Far be it from me not to keep the ladies happy.
     Some of you might remember that Cosmo has a bad case of bilateral hip dysplasia; not that there's a good case of it. There is also something seriously wrong with his knees. Operations to fix both of these issues are possible but probably wouldn't help and might make matters worse. We were told to expect that he could have about five or six years of normal activity before he would have any serious problems. He didn't last that long. He's only three years old and has apparently pulled a ligament in his right leg, which, we were told, wasn't likely to get any better. So Cosmo limps now, sometimes quite obviously. (It's not evident in the picture, but he is sitting down with his hind legs splayed out to the side, both appearing lifeless, but he seems not to notice and goes on his way being a big puppy seemingly unfazed by it all.) He gets around pretty well on his three other legs - which are really only two and a half. Odd thing though, he's a hunting dog and simply cannot pass up an urge to chase anything that moves - cats, squirrels (his favorite chasees), chipmunks, birds, and yes, even leaves (which are also his favorite things to bark at. As we've grown accustomed to his nutty behavior my wife and I have become quite secure in the knowledge that there will never be a leaf that sneaks up on the house. A terrorist that disguises himself as a leaf hasn't got a chance.) Coz has a bad habit of barking rather viciously at passing dogs. The sheriff's deputy who lives up the block has a huge German shepherd, and when the shepherd is walked by the house, Coz goes off like he wants to tear it apart. It's a good thing the shepherd ignores him, or he'd be in for a real butt whuppin'. We have another dog, Dani, a staffordshire terrier/ mastiff cross, and the two of them wrestle and chase around the yard a lot. But not as often as they used to. One thing I've noticed is Coz is much easier to knock off his feet. His back legs collapse when she slams him; it was always that way.
     The picture just misses depicting the devilment in this dogs eyes. He has a look of mischief and impishness that is unmistakable, especially when he wants something; and he doesn't want it sometime in the future, he wants it NOW. Your only option (that's probably an oxymoron - there is really no option involved) is to do as you're told. He lets you know exactly what he wants - you do it - and everything is honky-dory. This big PITA has more personality that most of the humans of my acquaintance.
     In a previous blog I described his forays concerning the surreptitious theft of the cat's food. The cat always leaves food behind after eating and Coz thinks of it as a snack. He lies crouched several feet away from the bowl, thinking we can't see his 106 pound bulk skulking in the middle of the kitchen floor. He looks like a tiger would look, whose about to pounce on a juicy lamb. When the cat leaves, Coz attacks the bowl. His problem is that the bowl is metal and the floor is hard wood, so there's telltale noise accompanying the attack. My wife hollers for him to leave the cat's dish alone. And she gets huffy about it. (Me, I could care less, but I holler - with much less enthusiasm than my wife thinks is necessary - just to be heard.).
     So Coz developed a sneaky rejoinder. At the first yell of detection he picks up the metal dish and heads out lickety-split into the family room and sets it down on the carpet. It's a much quieter way to devour the contents of a metal bowl; then to further complicate his shenanigans, he hides the bowl. He's a brat. My wife yells at him and the dog ignores her. He's already accomplished what he set out to do and made a good attempt to hide the evidence.
     After the strained ligament in his leg occurred, the veterinarian suggested we give him pain pills. It's difficult to determine if an animal is in pain or in how much pain - they don't whine like we humans do, but sometimes it's pretty obvious. My heart goes out to the big fella; I hate to see such a young, happy, beautiful creature suffer but for his part he handles his infirmity very well. The vet says he needs to lose weight - 20 lbs. - but he's not obese now - he's a big, deep-chested, powerfully built, hunting dog, and to my way of thinking, he would look absolutely emaciated after losing so much. Less weight would certainly help with his leg problems, though. We'll see how it goes.
     So we drop a couple of pain pills a day into his chow. Trouble is - and I have no answer for it - Coz hates taking pain pills. No kidding, if he sees one in the bowl, he'll eat around it. If one of us tries to get him to swallow one given by hand, he lets out a growl and turns away. He apparently hasn't yet made the connection between the little white pills and less pain. Or perhaps the pills make him feel funny. I know one of the ones I had taken in the past left me feeling strange, sickish, uneasy. Anyway, the other day I forget to put his pain medication in his chow (we have to camouflage it by mixing it in with the kibbles and string beans). I knew from experience he'd never take it from my hand, so I very cleverly (I thought) concealed one in with the leftover food in the cat's dish, thinking he'd jump right on it and take his medicine without realizing he'd been outfoxed by a superior being with thumbs and the brain power to outsmart a house pet. In his three years on the planet he's never let an opportunity to finish the cat's meal go by. Lately, he's become quite brazen; he'll grab up the dish right in front of my wife and prance (brazenly) into the family room and devour the remains. Most of the time he leaves a trail of bits behind. Once he's finished with the bowl he walks back through the kitchen snuffling up the bits, my wife yelling all the while. Anyway, I figured the ploy of slipping the medication into the cat's dish was a good one. But it didn't work. That SOB ignored that bowl for the entire day. He somehow must have sensed there was a pain pill in there, and he was gonna be dipped if he'd be suckered into taking it.
     Yeah, he's a willful brat all right, but he has his good points, too. His favorite times are just hanging out with one of us. Most of the time he'll lie on - not near, mind you, but on - our feet, so he'll be alerted when we arise to go somewhere. He wants to go, too. He loves to walk and ride in the truck.
     No one enters the house without being greeted at the door by Cosmo, no matter what time of the day or night it is. I know, a lot of dogs do this, but I think it's very cool. Often, the dog is the only one to acknowledge your arrival. It's nice to have someone greet you, when everyone else is too involved to care.

Try to think of my book, The Newshawk Reports: The Writings of a Politically Incorrect Newsbird, as a unique and wonderful Christmas present. Hard copies and an e-book available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

Saturday, October 18, 2014

BHO: Our Very Own Svengali

      One day last week El Semi Uno, The Half One, (if I knew how to say “wit” in Spanish, I could make the description more appropriate) said to the nation that Ebola would not come to America. He said it. I heard him. And, still, I fully expected there to be a full-fledged epidemic on the next plane arriving from Africa. This guy lies about everything – and apparently he’s convinced himself that we believe what he says.
But we know better don’t we? How’s it go – Fool me once, shame on you; Fool me twice, shame on me; try to fool me every time you open your mouth, you need to be bound and gagged.
This business of health officials refusing to put a stop to airline traffic from West Africa to the U.S. should be telling us something. They say a ban would interfere with efforts to confront the virus, but it certainly looks like an appropriate way to protect the American public, which should be their primary concern. With a ban, at least hospitals will not be treating as many Americans. Is the refusal to ban coming from the White House? No, not yet. At least, not openly. But the conviction to ban isn’t there. Several news writers say there’s no desire for it among White House schmos.
El Semi Uno is waffling. He said, “We will not hesitate to do what is necessary in order to maximize the chances that we avoid an attack here in the United States.” (One wonders if he’s referring to ISIS or Ebola. We are surrounded by enemies, folks.) I hate to say it (no, I don’t) but I wonder if this not a falsehood intended to make us feel safe, when the opposite is true. (What is going on at the border while Americans are focused on Ebola? Nothing good, you can take that to the bank.) My guess is the ban on air travel to the United States will not happen. Press Secretary Earnest said a ban would have no useful purpose, and he usually parrots El Semi Uno. In Congress, nearly all proponents of the ban are Republicans, hardly any Democrats think it’s a good idea. I wonder why? No ban is saying one of two things: Either the president does not have our health at heart, or he is putting the country at risk of a killer epidemic for political purposes, and he wants the epidemic to happen. What other conclusion is there to be made, in such a case?
Why would he want the epidemic to happen?  Is it that he sees the defeat of the Democrat party in the elections next month? His prime requisite is the destruction of the Republican Party. He needs to do something drastic to keep things going the way he wants them to go. The lame duck session, when the Democrats are supposed to be cleaning up old business before the next batch of pols arrive, will be a time when they instead will put a choke hold on the country. It will be a time of great destruction, with BO there presiding. Lest we complain too much, perhaps greater sanctions against the taxpayers will be forthcoming by way of Martial Law. We all know BO wishes to become dictator. He can do this under the aegis of Martial Law, which gives the president complete control over everything. He can even suspend the constraints of the Constitution. Imagine that! No training necessary, he is an experienced suspender.
 Every president has had the authority to declare Martial Law in the event of a crisis. To have support for his assumption to the dictatorship, BO needs a crisis. We have to want him to rescue us from something. Remember that every time the regime has called an event a crisis, a law was passed detrimental to the citizens (remember the Stimulus, which cost taxpayers nearly a trillion dollars and created nary a job? Your president laughed himself silly over that one.). Former White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emmanuel famously quipped, “You never let a serious crisis go to waste. And what I mean by that is it’s an opportunity to do things you think you could not do before.” Declaring yourself dictator would certainly apply.
Is it possible that the President of the United States of America, the leader of the “free” world, would betray his people by inviting an Ebola epidemic into the country? I don’t want to think anyone is capable of such evil. But desperate times call for desperate measures, BO might be thinking, especially when one’s dreams of being a god are on the line. Dictator! Woweee!. Don’t laugh; I wouldn’t mind being dictator. You would see some real changes made, you can bank on that. (I know, that line has already been taken.) But my changes would all be for the better, a much different tack than that taken by most dictators, who insist on making matters worse for the people over whom they rule.
I see BO as a modern day Svengali. Svengali was a fictional character in a book written a century ago who has come to characterize evil in literature. A person referred to as a Svengali is “a person who, with evil intent, dominates, manipulates and controls another,” particularly a creative person. Who is more creative than the American people? America haters like BO, all his schmos and most Democrats resent this and want it destroyed. Svengali was also anti-Semitic. Ring any bells? What? Racism in the White House, you wonder? There most certainly is. And this coming from an administration that survives by playing the race card daily.
Now I of course could be wrong about this business of BO welcoming an Ebola epidemic into the country. But looking at the situation and the potential for a big-time crisis, and reading the admonition of Rahn Emanuel, and the likelihood of an eviction of Democrats in November, and surmising BO’s desire for dictatorship, the elements of a Svengali manipulation are certainly present.
That’s all I’m saying.
But you think what you want

A lot more of this stuff is available in my book, The Newshawk Reports: The Writings of a Politically Incorrect Newsbird, on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. They'll make incredible Christmas presents.
Please, please buy one (or two). I need the money!

Sunday, October 12, 2014

P.C. Crowd Foils Columbus' Discovery


      As Columbus Day, the day set aside to honor the great explorer, who is said to have discovered America but really didn’t, approached I began wondering what it would have been like for Chris and his pals when they landed in America that day in October, 1492. What kind of day was it? What sort of inhabitants greeted him? Were they happy to see Chris or upset about him and his crew being there? What if he landed there today? Since, as we all know most anything of importance can be found in the Wimodaughsian Library in Canisteo. I went there and, sure enough, found a DVD of Columbus’ historic landing. The first scene shows the intrepid captain and his sidekick Amerigo debarking a ship’s dinghy and striding up the beach to parley with a welcoming committee of six rather strangely attired natives.
     “Wha’choo wont here, sucka?” demanded a black resident.
     “I’m Christopher Columbus, the great explorer, and I’m sailing to the West Indies to find gold, spices and slaves for Queen Isabella. If this is the West Indies, then you must be an Indian.”
     “Oo-oo-oo,” crooned a gay blade, “a real queen! I wonder what sheth like.”
     “Naw, man, I ain’t no Inin,” said the black guy. “That there’s an Inin,” hooking a thumb at a short, chubby guy with long hair. “Only they ain’t called Inins no mo’, they called Native Americans.”
     “And what do they call you?” Chris wanted to know.
     “I’m African-American.”
     “Where’s Africa?”
     “I dunno,” shrugging. “Somewhere.”
     “Why are you all called different things?” asks Chris. “You all live here together, don’t you?” He looked over each one of the group. “So what’s he?” nodding toward the gay guy.
     “He’s gay.”
     “Is that so? Does that mean he’s a happy American?” thinking he was getting the hang of this diversity business
     “Oh, we can be made happy,” giving Chris an appraising eye but not missing the sword slung from his left hip. “But, alas, we’re not happy now,” looking dejected.
     “One wonders what it would take to make you happy,” remarked the explorer.
     “You don’t want to go there!” sneered a member of NOW.
     “Oh, shusth, you, you woman,” angry now, standing arms akimbo. “We have rights, too, you know!” stamping his foot.”
     “Wow,” marveled the environmentalist commie, “ you come across pretty strong for a guy who gets his panties from an egg.”
     “What a drag, man, what rights do you think you have? We the ones that need rights. We need reparations, man,” says the black guy.
     “And we’ll make sure you get them, too,” smirked the chick from the ACLU, “just as soon as we get all the pictures of Jesus out of the schools.”
     “And what will that accomplish?” asks the Catholic captain.
     “Ah, I don’t know,” the chick replied, shrugged her scrawny shoulders, “It’s just what we do. If we didn’t have that to do, we would have to find real jobs.”
     “You make a career of removing from schools pictures of the greatest teacher in the history of the word? What a remarkable way to spend your life,” said Chris. “And what irrelevant matters occupy your mind, my dear,” directing the question to the environmental chick
     “I was wondering, sir, how many little fish you murdered when you walked ashore a few minutes ago. And there you stand, thoughtlessly swatting at indigent bugs that land on you. It’s not their fault you’re here. A typical white bully, that’s what you are, eyes narrowed, a sneer showing a mouthful of crooked teeth appears.”
     “Sorry I asked,” says Chris.
     “Hey, Captain,” yelled a mouth from the NOW crowd. “how many women do you have working on those ships out there,” pointing to the Pinta, the Nina and the Santa Maria bobbing in the bay.
     “What do you want to know for?” asked the captain, suspicious of the nag’s motives, leaning toward her, getting in her face.
     “My group is interested in knowing if women are getting paid the same as men,” spitting the last word, “and that they aren’t being sexually harassed in the kitchen.”
     “If we allowed women on board, Miss Mouth, we would sexually harass them when and where we damned well pleased. I assume women who yammer of such things are attempting to extort doubloons from the people they work for. We respond to that with a good flogging. They never cause us men any trouble after that.”
     “No women on board? What’s the matter, Captain, don’t think women can hoist them sails, coil them ropes, weigh that anchor?” sneering into his face.
     “I’ll bet therth no gay people either,” whimpered the gay Bermudan, “We can hoist and coil and weigh, too,” dabbing some snot off his/her nose and a tear from his/her eye.
     “Lady, the last woman who spoke to me like that ended up as an anchor,” Chris’ face crimson now. “I’m tired of this crap. You!” pointing to the black guy. “Get some men together, chop down some of the those trees over there and build me a cabin.”
     “Whoa, hold on there,” yipped the environmental chick. “You can’t be chopping down those trees for houses. Owls and canaries live there. Where will they go?”
     “How about a different tree? There’s a whole forest of them further down the beach.” Amerigo Vespucci chiming in for the first time”
     “Wha’chu mean, sucka, build a cabin? I ain’t buildin’ no damn cabin. No way! My gub’ment check don’t cover no manual labor.”
     “Mine edder. Me no build no damn cabin, edder,” said the Indian guy.
     “This is some bunch of crackpots, Captain,” whispers Amerigo. “We should toss ‘em all in irons, put gags on them mouthy women, chain Tinkerbell there to the bow in case we lose an anchor.”
     The environmentalist wasn’t done yet: “Whatsa matter, Mister Conqueror, don’t think owls and canaries should have rights too? And trees?”
     “Trees have rights?” stammered Chris.
     “And fetuses.”
     “No they don’t!” howled the nag from NOW.
     “Do so!”
     “Do not!”
     “All animals have rights, too,” insisted the tree hugger.
     “Oh, for chrissakes,” howled Chris.
     “So do black folks.”
     “So do Innins, but not as much.”
     “So do criminals. And victims.”
     “Victims? Victims of what?”
     “We need wombs for tranthexuals. It’s not fair …”
     “Ah-ah-ah-ah, let me outta here,” howled the crazed explorer. He and Amerigo parted company with America’s native tribes and sprinted down the beach to their dinghy. “Ho, ho, gotta go!” he yelled as they pushed off and hastily rowed to sea. “Let’s head further down the coast,” suggested Chris, “maybe we can find a kinder, gentler place to discover … maybe someplace with an abortion factory … or having a mass execution … or maybe even an Occupy demonstration. All of which would be friendlier places to discover. Hurry, Amerigo!”

My book, The Newshawk Reports: The Writings of a Politically Incorrect Newsbird, is available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

Monday, October 6, 2014

Getting By in a World of Crap

I’m really concerned for the sanity of the regime, after seeing in the news the supplies sent to our Syrian allies were “inadvertently” dropped into ISIS territory. That is  reassuring. Is this a bungle or a plot. One thing I have come to suspect about BO and his Schmos is they usually do what they plan to do, no matter how it looks to the rest of us. They are not only immune to prosecution, they are immune to adverse public opinion.
Remember, for years we blamed the disintegration of the country on BO and Schmo mistakes; we said they didn’t know what they were doing – they were inexperienced and totally dumb. Truth was, they were following their plan of Cloward and Piven - destruction from within, all along – to perfection, in fact. These people aren’t nearly as stupid as we thought they were. And unless House Republicans and (hopefully) a newly installed Republican Senate can reverse the damage the Schmos have wreaked, our gooses may be cooked (or is it our geese may be cooked?) It’s taking a lot for granted there are a sufficient number of true Conservatives with balls enough to help us. It’s pretty much up to them; there’ little we can do to help ourselves and that’s maddening. Our only remaining rejoinder is the polls next month. Be sure to get your butts out to vote – for a Republican. If you plan to vote in another Democrat, please take note of the mess they’ve caused and stay home. The country does not need you.
I had questions for BO, so I called the Off-White Abode to see if he was around. I was told he was putting golf balls in the Ovoid Space, so I fueled the Fredmobile with Brown Stuff – B.S., which lay several inches deep in the streets of Shamalot, and drove over to see him. I, of course, had no trouble navigating the hallways (in fact, I’d seen the regular Secret Service hall monitor hand-in-hand with an intern, heading toward the door to the Rose Garden) and walked right into the Ovoid Space as he dropped a club into his golf bag.
“Newshawk, holy mackerel, man, how do you keep getting in here? I done told the guards to watch out for you, and when you showed up, to throw you out.”
“Wellll, you know what they’re saying nowadays – jobs are scarcer than hen’s teeth and good help is hard to find – especially in the ranks of your SS. Both issues you have first hand knowledge of.”
“Yeah, but …”
“Ever wonder if the Secret Service crew that protects you is doing its job. Why is it called “secret”, by the way? Everybody knows about it. And is it staffed by guys who are really ready to take a bullet for you?”
“Well, er, I am El Uno, The One (and only, I might add) …”
“It’s absurd. I wouldn’t take a bullet for you. I mean, why should I? The country would be better off without you.”
“Actually, I feel pretty safe, even if there was no Secret Service. With me gone, good ole Joe would be president, and nobody wants Joe to be president.”
“Is that why you chose him as your running mate?”
He gave me a knowing look and shrugged. I got the point. I do wonder, though, why we never see the two of them together.
“I see you’re back on your global warming kick ..”
“It’s a very important issue … and we need the money carbon-footprint taxes will bring.”
“It’s crap and you know it! There’s no such thing as global warming, anymore; the warming stopped 17 years ago. You know, instead of lying about global warming, you should be more concerned with the global swarming of homicidal terrorists. You all but invite them into the country, and at the same time, you want to go after our guns. What the hell do you think you are doing, sir!”
He did not deign to react to my tirade, but said, “So impeach me.”
“Great idea.”
“But there’s still good ole Joe to deal with,” he said smiling and waggling that “you shouldn’t do that” finger back and forth.
He thought a minute, then continued, “Besides, with all the problems I’ve got – Afghanistan, Iran, Syria, Iraq, Israel,” counting them off on his fingers, “Ukraine and Putin, all that stuff at the border, and how to steal the next election, impeachment doesn’t sound so bad.”
“More time for golf, huh? Anyway, by the time they’d get around to actually removing you, Hillary will be office. Geez, I wonder if impeachments are transferable.”
“Doubtful. But if it is, make sure Joe isn’t her vice president.”
“I hear ya. Well, I guess I’ll be moseying,” getting up to leave.
“See ya.”
“Yeah, oh, hey, by the way, I saw the cartoon about the watermelon toothpaste.”
“Sad business, that. What did you think, or should I ask?”
“I think it’s crying shame a white guy can’t say “watermelon” without a gang of shithead liberals, black and white,  calling him racist. They would probably have tried to lynch the cartoonist if he’d referred to the toothpaste as “spare rib” brown, I suppose.”
“Absolutely, that’s what political correctness is all about.”
“What a bunch of crap.”