Wednesday, November 26, 2014

I Should have Stayed the Course

I must apologize for not getting out a Thursday/ Friday blog. Several events came together which set it behind a couple of days.
Our eldest son came home from his home far, far away to visit for Thanksgiving. It was a good time to do some things together, and since we know not when he will visit again, we needed to take advantage of this time together.
We used to play chess quite often, and I used to win all the time, allowing him an occasional win, just so he’d know beating me was possible. Now it’s not only possible, it’s likely. He’s studied the game and achieved a degree of proficiency far above mine. So I avoid playing chess with him as often as possible.
It reminded me of the times, years ago, when we played Atari. The game had not been out in the marketplace very long when we bought him one for Christmas. It didn’t take him long to master the games. I think he liked to play the games with me because I was so easy to beat. He mastered them so quickly. He would never admit it, but I’m pretty sure he was practicing when I was working. Anyway, it became obvious, in a very short period of time, that I was no match for young Fred. In fact, he won so readily and so often, that after a while it was no fun to play him anymore. Besides, I could always get revenge for my trouncings at the chess board. Not so anymore.
My next excuse for not getting this blog out on time is it’s the time of year to make Christmas presents for tykes, in my shop. Every year, with few exceptions, I’ve made wooden toys for the poor kids at Sister Susan’s Steuben Rural Ministries. She and her helpers put them in a Christmas stockings with a name tag attached and sends them off to families with kids, who may not get much otherwise. For a couple of years I made pull toys, then graduated to toy cars. This year the kids will get little animal puzzles. There will also be a few small-fry rocking horses.
I found I enjoy making small objects more than large ones. Back in the late 80s and into the mid-90s, I owned a custom furniture wood shop - Fantasy Furniture Workshop (“Let ME build the furniture of your dreams”). Some of the projects were so big and so complicated, I grew weary of working on them long before they were finished. Display cabinets, some entertainment centers, and hutches were of this ilk. Much more fun were trestle tables, bunk beds and gun cabinets. Perhaps next year I’ll start a bit earlier in the year and make some old-style wood toys.
Perhaps my biggest mistake was not sticking with Fantasy Furniture. It was a new shop, and one of the few places around of its kind. I should have expected there to be times when there was no work, maybe even more times than there were. So I started taking some of my scroll sawn items to craft shows. I had developed some skill with a scrollsaw and was one of the few scroll artists around. At first, sales went pretty well, then dropped off. So I added some turned bowls and vases to my stock. They did okay, but I never seemed to be able to get over the hump, i.e., go home with a profit in my pocket after every show. Even shows where I turned a profit, it wasn’t anything to brag about. Then the source of the problem showed itself. Another crafter walked over to my tent and bellyached about the number of trade show items on display at this particular show. Trade show items are those already made in a factory– mostly its stuff from China. The stuff sells so cheaply it can be marked up for a nice profit to the person displaying it at the craft show. This kind of thing became widespread at the same time craft show promoters were stating in LARGE CAPITAL LETTERS ON THEIR APPLICATIONS they would not allow any trade show items in their craft shows. They would make a big production of inspecting the work of each crafter before a show opened. Inevitably, trade show items were found, but the promoter would say they didn’t want any “holes” in the show (meaning no spaces between tents), so the offending crafter was allowed to stay this year but were blackballed from this point on.
You might think the issue was cut and dried. But as with most things of consequence there were complications. For instance, a female crafter friend of mine fashioned lamps from old chunks of wood – do some scraping, shaping and carving, varnish them up – beautiful things they were indeed. The problem arose when, to display a finished product, the necessity arose to provide the lamp with a lamp shade. She was not a seamstress, nor did she know of one who admitted to knowing the knack of manufacturing such things, so she had to buy them! Tsk, tsk, said the promoters at a show she and I attended in New Jersey. We cannot have pre-made products displayed in our show. It cheapens the work of everyone here! So my friend was told not to come back next year or ever again. Personally, I couldn’t see the harm in allowing her return every year. Her work was beautiful, her 200 square foot display eye-catching and glamorous. And Lucy was a real character; few people can entertain a browsing crowd the way Lucy could. Of course, the bottom line said that to remove the offenders of the no-trade-show items policy included returning the money. It would have been a considerable payout. Lucy herself paid $1,000 for her space alone. Nine or ten of those would make a big hole in the promoter’s pocketbook.
Income from these shows trended downward as more and more of this trade-show crap found its way into the craft shows. Those of us who actually made our crafts were taking it on the chin, and the cheaters where raking it in; and the customers weren’t even aware they were buying crap from China.
Then came the time when I didn’t have the money to pay our taxes. It was always my responsibility to pay the taxes, and I didn’t have the money. I had to ask my wife to help pay them. Well, that did it. The dream of a having a successful craft business blew up – I had to go back to work. I managed to attend a show every now and then – the ones that usually paid well, but the general scene didn’t change for the better. I noticed at the last show I went to – in New Paltz - the promoters had raised the parking fee to $8 per person – not per car, per person The “parking lot” was a morass of mud and it was raining like crazy. It occurred to several of us with tents near the entrance the customers (just a man and a woman, in most cases) were spending $16 before they even got past the gate into the place. Usually, the first stop they would make was the food court (the food was very good, I’ll give ‘em that, but expensive). The point I’m trying to make is that potential craft customers were out in the neighborhood of $40 to $50 before they even went shopping at the craft displays! No wonder sales of craft items was diminishing. People were spending a good amount of their budget for the day just to get in and have something to eat!
When I started actually losing money – spending more to attend the shows than I made at them, I quit altogether. By then, all the driving, loading and unloading, setting up and tearing down – going to a craft show by yourself is no picnic, you know -  the back started to hurt a lot; so combine pain with losing money, it doesn’t take a really smart guy to know when it’s time to quit I quit. From what I’m hearing around the circuit, I chose right. But I should have kept going with the wood shop.
Dag nab it!

. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Copies of an entire bookful of this kind of prose are available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble websites. (Just thought you might be wondering about that.)


Thursday, November 13, 2014

A New Version of an Old Story Part II

                     

 I wrote the first version of this imaginary tale several years ago. Hope you enjoy.
Many, many years ago I read a book entitled “Little Lord Fauntleroy.” Some of us older folks might remember reading the book, but I have doubts it’s read much these days.
I don’t remember if I read the book as a reading assignment for school or picked it up in the Los Molinos library. What I do remember is that the little lord, Cedric Errol was his name, came across as a bit of a sissy. However, Ceddie was a very nice person. He possessed the quality of goodness in such degree, he was much admired by others and emulated by many.
I don’t know why but the other day I started thinking about Lord Fauntleroy and his very nasty grandfather. Then it come to me that we have a contemporary example of these two literary figures: I’ll call them Little Lord Barackleroy and BO’s Daddy George. I don’t intend to recount the entire book on the little lord (I’m sure if you Google it, it will come), but in a nutshell young Cedric and his widowed mother live in poverty in America. One day a man visits and tells Cedric and his mom that Cedric is in fact English royalty. His grandfather wants him to come to England to live. So Ceddie goes to live at his grandfather’s estate and the two bond and become very close. The grandfather, it turns out, is a mean, nasty, miserly old goat, but young Ceddie’s goodness rubs off on him and they all live happily ever after. Oh, by the way, there’s a subplot about a gang of ne’er-do-wells plotting to rob the estate.
For the sake of brevity, let’s call Lord Barackleroy Barry and BO’s Daddy George Georgie. Make sense? Here we go.
It seems that the future Lord Barackleroy  (sorry, just getting warmed up here) once existed in relative poverty as a community organizer. Now, most would agree that community organizer is a nice phrase meaning rabble rouser and Barry was known to arouse a lot of rabble. One thing (truth would soon be known, the only thing) Barry was good at was speechifying, and boy, could Barry talk good. He mesmerized huge crowds with bull pucky and empty promises about “change.” That the rabble rouser had no ideas of his own was shown by the fact he needed to read the stuff he was saying from a thing called a puckyscreen, provided, of course, by Georgie, who knew all along Barry was an idiot. But goo-goo eyed crowds made up of things called dimliberalites didn’t care where the lies came from as long as they sounded good. And dimliberalites love a good lie. Without lies, dimliberalites would have nary a lick of importance at all. They just wouldn’t know what to do if truth was all there was to tell.
One day a mysterious man approaches the rabble rouser, congratulates him on reading a good speech off the puckyscreen, and tells him he has high-brow potential. Would he like to come and be king? Wow, thinks Barry, they want me, a rabble rouser, to become king? They must be believing all this rabble I’m rousin'.. But, hell, yeah, I’ll be king – if you really want me to.
At this time his “grandfather” Daddy Georgie begins to tell him what’s expected of him when he becomes king. But unlike Lord Fauntleroy, would-be king Barackleroy has no goodness to persuade his grandfather otherwise. So Barry takes Georgie’s money and learns to turn around and drop his pants to ensure a steady supply. The two bond in this fashion and become a formidable team of ne’er-do-wells, Georgie out to destroy Barry’s kingdom and the puppet Barry liking what he’s doing, because he doesn’t like his adopted kingdom either. "These folks have it too good," he says. "And they didn't build any of it."
Soon, Barry becomes king and immediately addresses the many crises in the land. Everything of concern to him must be remedied NOW. His regime assumes ownership of companies he deems to be in over their heads. He bales out others who have been financially awkward, most criminally so. King Barry becomes their savior and also ours, in his own mind anyway, as he consumes huge amounts of dough confiscated from overtaxed people, which is lavished on his union pals that helped his election. TARP, stimulus, national healthcare called Barrycare, which makes him poke his chest out when he hears it said, Cap and Trade, all wonderful ideas in Barry’s mind were intended to repay the providers of campaign dough and to place a large blood-sucking leech on the backs of the people of the kingdom. When the ne’er-do-wells come to raid the Manor, as they do the story, does Barry shoo them away as did Cedric a century earlier? No way. He flings open the doors and lets them pour in. “Come on in, boys, and bring your crazy-assed ideas with you! We have a kingdom to destroy!” When he had enough crumbs he looked for more. It takes a lot of ne’er-do-wells to destroy a kingdom.
 When the lawmakers of the kingdom actually wised up and refused to do what Barry deemed necessary, he bypassed The Law and penned Kingly Edicts by the dozen. This is how King Barry and his Smucky Schmos diddled the taxpayers in the kingdom: Most didn’t even know they were getting diddled, so crafty was the diddling. Diddling was the secret weapon of the Barry Regime. Georgie taught Barry to be a very good diddler, and diddling was painless for all those feeling the diddle, because so many believed that diddling the other guy was the way to go. As long as it wasn't them getting the diddle, everything was cool.
 But then it happened. An election occurred, after which it was obvious that Barry Boy’s and Sugar Daddy George’s diddling days were coming to an end. Oh, what, oh, what, will Barry Boy and Georgie do when their diddling days are done? It wouldn’t do to just let sleepy dogs lie, so to speak, that is, let Barry Boy and Georgie go their merry way. No way. Besides, in the story Grandpa becomes a good guy and he and Ceddie live together as good guys forever after, in harmony. But we all know Barry and Daddy George are not good guys. Something has to happen to them. Plot demands resolution – and restitution! The diddlers have to become the diddlees.
Hey, I got it! Both of these dudes are foreigners – aliens - right? Let’s check to see of they’re legal aliens. I mean really.
That way both Diddledum and Diddledee will get their comeuppance. We‘ll export them back to Mexico, where so many of the drugs and criminals are coming from, and the disease, too. The diddlers will became those getting diddled, like they’ve been doing to us. A taste of their own crapola.
Oh, oh, I guess I got away from the main theme of the Little Lord Fauntleroy story just a trifle.. But you see what I’m getting at. Right?
What do you think?+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Don't you think a copy of The Newshawk Reports would make a great Christmas present? Its an ideal present for people who enjoy reading the sort of thing written above. The book's content consists of the first 96 columns and blogs written after I "took up my pen"  again four years ago. I say "columns and blogs" because a couple of months after my columns began again in the local paper, a liberal managing editor arrived on the scene (I was already doing battle with a liberal publisher, who would dump a piece he didn't like, without a word to me. He was generally so stupid, they fired him). The managing editor took it upon himself to drop the column, without first letting me know it would be dropped (It's just a courtesy). I have never been able to get a sensible answer from him on why he refused to publish my stuff - when it was the most read piece in the newspaper! At least 30 people (that I know of) dropped their subscriptions because of it.The receptionist who fielded most of the phone calls said there were many more than that. This at a time when the paper was doing all it could to improve its circulation numbers. Go figure. Liberalism trumps good business sense every time.
Anyway, look me up on Amazon or Barnes and Noble and order a copy of The Newshawk Reports for your loved one. He or she deserves the best - don't you think? Kindle and Nook editions are available. 




Friday, November 7, 2014

Will BO Look Xi in the Eye?

With the splendid midterm elections in the rearview mirror, I had many questions with which to hound El Semi Uno. They could have waited, I suppose, but I wanted a shot at him, figuratively, before he left for China next week.
I was in the Shamalot area, so it would not be out of the way to swing by the Off-White Abode and piss off BO with hounding questions.. I was low on fuel so I pulled to the side of the road and shoveled in some B.S. (brown stuff), which is everywhere in D.C., and gets deeper and wider as one nears the seat of power. As you know, my car, the Fredmobile, is a “brown” car, which is handy in this area because fuel is so plentiful and is free.
Gas tank gorged with B.S. (I sometimes keep some for my own use), I tooled into my reserved parking place and strode like I owned the joint into the Off-White Abode, up the elevator, down the hall, unobstructed into the Ovoid Space. There was BO in gym shorts and Tee shirt doing, of all things, push ups.
“Hey. What’s going on, Mr. President? Getting a little exercise, hey? From what I hear you should be thinking about exercising your Constitutional right to a fair and speedy trial.”
“For crying out loud, Newshawk, how is it you keep getting in here? I keep telling those SS people not to allow you anywhere near the place,” sitting on the rug, hugging his knees as he spoke.
“Well, sir, if you’ll remember the last time I was here, a week or so ago, the same thing happened. I told you I saw a sign on the bulletin board announcing a convention of Columbian prostitutes was in town, and that it could be that’s where you’d find your body guard detail.”
“Yeah, so?”
“My guess is they aren’t back yet.”
The president made no comment, as he usually did not when a subordinate misbehaved, got to his feet and began performing some trunk rotations and back stretches. He let his discomfort with the unaccustomed moves be known with occasional moans and groans, as long unused muscles responded to the pulls and twists of long overdue exercise. He twisted and contorted for a few minutes then flopped into a chair situated nearby by a vigilant chief of staff.
Huffing and puffing, he said, “Man, I haven’t done that since ’06.”
The significance of the remark temporarily went by me, and I asked, “Do you really think the results of the elections said the voters wanted the two parties to compromise? To sit together and make kissy-kissy while they continued to screw over the country?”
“Sure, what else did the elections mean? What do you think they meant?”
“I think Rush Limbaugh put it accurately when he said it was a direct repudiation of liberal policies. That the American people have had enough of your agenda …”
“Do you come in here uninvited,” steaming, madder than hell, “and start quoting that conservative crackpot Rush Freakin’ Limbaugh! I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT RUSH FREAKIN’ LIMBAUGH! GOT IT?”
“Yessir, reckon I do. No quoting Rush Freakin’ Limbaugh.”
“Anything else, while you’re here? I got stuff to do.”
At this time his trainer pulled a Cheval mirror into the center of the room. El Semi Uno stands in front of it and begins bending forward, stiffly at first then gradually with more flexibility, emitting grunts and groans only occasionally, holding the small of his back often. BO performs ten bends then rests. Ten more then sits in the chair, puffing.
I said, “Why are you putting your self through this? You get your exercise on the back nine and using the stairs on Air Force One. This bending and twisting routine can be murder, as you know.”
He was back in front of the mirror now.
His trainer said, “Remember, sir, to place your left arm across your stomach and your right arm behind your back when you bend.”
“Okay, okay,” he said impatiently to the trainer. To me, he said, “I need to get in shape for my China trip … uh, oh, I shouldn’t have said that …”
The significance of the exercises and the comment made about the year ’06 blossomed right in front of me, like a mushroom cloud following an atomic blast.
“NOW I GET IT!” giving him a crap-eating, I-got-it-now grin. “You’re going to meet the new premier of China. I read where foreign leaders are much unimpressed with the results of the midterms – they consider you weak and you’re going to be mucho embarrassed in China, where they don’t take any crap off voters.
“As a matter of fact, I saw it written where some foreign leaders, particularly the Chinese, consider your performance for the past six years , ah, “insipid” is the word they used and suggested that we American voters were tired of your “banality.”  How’dya like them apples, jack?” I said with a wise-guy smirk on my face.
“You read too much crap, Newshawk. I am Obama, the Anointed One. I am a near Supreme Being – I have a Nobel Prize, don’t you understand this?”
“Supreme, my ass, and if you had any shame you’d give the Nobel back. The Chinese premier Xi Jinping is reported to want, and I quote, “A new model for a greater power relationship with the U.S. Perhaps something more.” China is tired of - what’s your word? – jayvee - role in the world’s power structure and is demanding a place on the varsity squad.”
“Yeah, so what? I can handle it.”
“Maybe at one time, but now they’re thinking you’re JV or at the very least losing stature. The prestige of the country under your “leadership” has slipped considerably. Some are even questioning our super power status.
“You know what I think?” I asked.
“No, and I don’t care, but I’d bet you’re gonna tell me anyway,” bending slowly …
“Eyes to the floor, don’t look up,” said the trainer, scolding BO as he worked on his bowing.
“You’re doing these limbering up exercises so you can fly over there and bow to this guy. Right? Like you did in ’06 with other world leaders and embarrassed the crap out of every red-blooded American?”
He deigned not to respond.
I turned to the trainer and said, “You need to increase his routine. More stoops, more bends. Especially the bends. Make him real flexible, so he can bend over and grab his ankles.” Eh, eh.




Tuesday, November 4, 2014

BO's Friends Like Hen's Teeth

              
      I had been hearing quite a lot about Democrats being reluctant to gloat over their accomplishments. I hadn’t realized though just how chicken they were to live up to themselves, when I met a couple of friends of mine down at the Golden Gulp and Gurgle Roostertail Lounge in DC.
     Socialist Democrat operative Pud Politico and right-wing extremo man Red State Louie were seated, noses inches apart in heated, breath stinking conversation. Pub was near to pounding the table and Louie was near to pounding Pud as I casually strolled over, took a seat and began to listen, all ears, like I’d been there all night.
     “Obama is great! Obama is great!” seethed Pud Politico, bearing his teeth for all the world to see.
     “It’s Allah. Allah is great,” explained Red State Louie, barely able to stand the dumbness of the Democrat.
     “There’s no difference.”
“Of course there’s a difference, you ninny. Obama isn’t God, no matter what he thinks.
     “Is too!”
     “Is not!
     “Is so!”
     “What do you think, Newshawk?” Louie asked.
     “Well, he sure acts like it. I’m sure he thinks he is,” I said
     “That’s because he is, dang it!” Pud insisted, jumping up and down and shaking his fists defiantly.
     All of a sudden a explosive commotion arose across the room. A blue-suited man scrambled over chairs and bowled over tables in an effort to outrun another blue-suited man with a halo hovering above his head.

     “Help, help” he howled. “It’s Obama. Make him go away. Shoo, shoo, Obama!” But Obama wouldn’t go away. “Go on, Obama. Git outta here now,” holding his hands up and flipping his fingers backwards in the classic, “Git outta here” way. He stopped by our table, out of breath. “Hey, Newshawk,” he said, “tell Obama to go away. Please.”
     “I’ve been telling him that for six years, and he’s still hanging around. Most of us Conservatives don’t know what to do with him either – well nothing legal anyway,” I explained.
     “The hell with the Conservatives. I’m a Democrat!”
     “Well, Obama,” I said looking at the president, “Looks like your friends are fewer than chicken’s teeth.”
     “Yeah,” said the self-admitted Democrat. “It’s that darned Obamacare and stimulus and TARP that you …”
     Suddenly a large woman stood up and slapped the self-admitted Democrat right across his mouth. He rebounded like bobble head; she slugged him again.
     “How dare you talk like that around a lady, you … you scurvy dog! That’s some nasty mouth you got on you, mister!”
     “Hey, what lady?” Showing that this Democrat doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.
     She punched him again, then said, “You best get outta here, boy, and take this little skinny guy with the halo with you.”
     “Hey, what did I say that was so bad,” the self-admitted Democrat had to ask.
     “Obamacare, stimulus, TARP … why, you should have your mouth washed out with soap!”
     “Oh, yes, ma’am. I see your point,” he lamented. Turning toward Obama, again waggling his fingers, “Go on, Obama. Shoo! Hit the road! Ain’t no love around here”







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?”
“Yepper.”
“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?"  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
                                                             DISCLAIMERS
All of the characters described herein are real people. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely intentional. This writing is intended for serious study and wanton plagiarism; persons with a sense of humor are advised to pursue their interests elsewhere. This writing is to be widely disseminated where prohibited. No assembly required. Batteries not included or necessary. Warning: Contents will not settle in a Democrat stomach but likely to get stuck in one's craw. Caution: Reading this stuff may prevent drowsiness. IRS Red Flag: Reading anything written by this Voss character is not a tax deduction; any attempts to claim such may cause the meltdown and disappearance of another Lois Lerner hard drive.
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                                                           AUTHOR'S NOTE
Keep in mind, as the Christmas season approaches, that the book, The Newshawk Reports: The writings of a politically incorrect newsbird, will make a wonderful present for any number of your loved ones. Check it out on Amazon or Barnes and Noble. Keep in mind, the blogs in the Archives here are not the same as the ones in the book. It's all different material, all original, written by yours truly.

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 …”
“Both.”
“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.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
“Boy, Newshawk, you sure know how to take the fun out of voting.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Smart ass.”

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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?”




The Flip Side