Monday, October 16, 2017

A Giddy Reception for Columbus


As Columbus Day, the day set aside to honor the great explorer, who is said to have discovered America but really didn’t (he was too late), 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.”

     “Would you know where Africa is?”

     “Naw, I dunno, man. It’s not my thing, ya know?” 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.

     “You poor thing! 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 you, you woman,” angry now, standing arms akimbo. “We have rights, too, you know!” stamping his/her 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, shrugging 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 marched 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 male bully, that’s what you are,” eyes narrowed, a sneer showing a mouthful of crooked, yellow 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. Oh, by the way, the space aboard ship to which you refer is called a galley.”

     “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 those trees over there and build me a cabin.”

     “Whoa, hold on there,” yipped the chick from the EPA. “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, MisterConqueror, don’t think owls and canaries should have rights too? And trees?”

     “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.”

     ‘’And gayths,” lisped Tinkerbell.

     “So do Inins.”

     “So do criminals. And victims.”

     “Victims? Victims of what?”

     “Anything.”

     “We need rules for tranthexuals. It’s not fair …”

     “Male ransexuals had better learn to use properly designated restrooms,” said a huge man standing on hillside nearby. He leaned against a tree pounding the side of a very large pair of scissors into his palm. “I see one of them fellers that should be taking a leak in the Men’s Room dangling his bidness in the Girl’s Room, I know just how to make him the girl he wants to be,” he said, spinning the scissors in his hand.

      “Watch it, buster,” said the ACLU chick, pointing a finger at the big man. “You take the law into your own hands and …”

      “Don’t worry, lady. I won’t be taking anything into my own hands, eh, eh,” snapping the scissors in her face.

     “Ah-ah-ah-ah, let me outta here,” howled the crazed explorer. He and Amerigo parted company with America’s natives and sprinted down the beach to their dinghy. “Ho, ho, gotta go!” he yelled as they pushed off and hastily rowed into the waves. “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 a campus full of pissed off Liberals rioting. All of which would be friendlier places to discover than this friggin’ place. Hurry, Amerigo! Don’t look back!”

A

Monday, October 9, 2017

A Wild Reception for Columbus


As Columbus Day, the day set aside to honor the great explorer, who is said to have discovered America but really didn’t (he was too late)., 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.”

     “Would you know where Africa is?”

     “Naw, I dunno, man. It’s not my thing, ya know?” 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.

     “You poor thing! 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 you, you woman,” angry now, standing arms akimbo. “We have rights, too, you know!” stamping his/her 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, shrugging 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 male bully, that’s what you are,” eyes narrowed, a sneer showing a mouthful of crooked, yellow 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. Oh, by the way, the space to which you refer is called a galley.”

     “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 those trees over there and build me a cabin.”

     “Whoa, hold on there,” yipped the chick from the EPA. “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, MisterConqueror, don’t think owls and canaries should have rights too? And trees?”

     “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.”

     ‘’And gayths,” lisped Tinkerbell.

     “So do Inins.”

     “So do criminals. And victims.”

     “Victims? Victims of what?”

     “Anything.”

     “We need rules for tranthexuals. It’s not fair …”

     “Transexuals had better learn to use properly designated restrooms,” said a huge man standing on hillside nearby. He leaned against a tree pounding the blades of a large pair of shears in his palm. “I see one of them fellers that should be taking a leak in the Men’s Room dangling his bidness in the Girl’s Room, I know just how to make him the girl he wants to be,” he said, spinning the scissors in his hand.

      “Watch it, buster,” said the ACLU chick, pointing a finger at the big man. “You take the law into your own hands and …”

      “Don’t worry, lady. I won’t be taking anything into my own hands, eh, eh,” spinning the scissors.

     “Ah-ah-ah-ah, let me outta here,” howled the crazed explorer. He and Amerigo parted company with America’s natives and sprinted down the beach to their dinghy. “Ho, ho, gotta go!” he yelled as they pushed off and hastily rowed into the waves. “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 a Nazi demonstration. All of which would be friendlier places to discover than this friggin’ place. Hurry, Amerigo! Don’t look back!”

Sunday, October 8, 2017

A Wacky Reception for Columbus


As Columbus Day, the day set aside to honor the great explorer, who is said to have discovered America but really didn’t (he was too late)., 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.”

     “Would you now where Africa is?”

     “Naw, I dunno, man. It’s not my thing, ya know?” 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.

     “You poor thing! 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/her 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 male bully, that’s what you are,” eyes narrowed, a sneer showing a mouthful of crooked, yellow 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. Oh, by the way, the space to which you refer is called a galley.”

     “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 chick from the EPA. “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, MisterConqueror, don’t think owls and canaries should have rights too? And trees?”

     “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.”

     ‘’And gayths,” lisped Tinkerbell.

     “So do Innins.”

     “So do criminals. And victims.”

     “Victims? Victims of what?”

     “Anything.”

     “We need rules for tranthexuals. It’s not fair …”

     “Transexuals had better learn to use properly designated restrooms,” said a huge man standing on hillside nearby. He leaned against a tree pounding the side of a double-bitted ax into his palm. “I see one of them fellers that should be taking a leak in the Men’s Room dangling his bidness in the Girl’s Room, I know just how to make him the girl he wants to be,” he said, spinning the ax in his hand.

      “Watch it, buster,” said the ACLU chick, pointing a finger at the big man. “You take the law into your own hands and …”

      “Don’t worry, lady. I won’t be taking anything into my own hands, eh, eh,” spinning the ax.

     “Ah-ah-ah-ah, let me outta here,” howled the crazed explorer. He and Amerigo parted company with America’s natives and sprinted down the beach to their dinghy. “Ho, ho, gotta go!” he yelled as they pushed off and hastily rowed into the waves. “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 a Nazi demonstration. All of which would be friendlier places to discover. Hurry, Amerigo! Don’t look back!”

A Nutty Reception for Columbus


As Columbus Day, the day set aside to honor the great explorer, who is said to have discovered America but really didn’t (he was too late)., 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.”

     “Would you now where Africa is?”

     “Naw, I dunno, man. It’s not my thing, ya know?” 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.

     “You poor thing! 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/her 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 male bully, that’s what you are,” eyes narrowed, a sneer showing a mouthful of crooked, yellow 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. Oh, by the way, the space to which you refer is called a galley.”

     “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 chick from the EPA. “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, MisterConqueror, don’t think owls and canaries should have rights too? And trees?”

     “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.”

     ‘’And gayths,” lisped Tinkerbell.

     “So do Innins.”

     “So do criminals. And victims.”

     “Victims? Victims of what?”

     “Anything.”

     “We need rules for tranthexuals. It’s not fair …”

     “Transexuals had better learn to use properly designated restrooms,” said a huge man standing on hillside nearby. He leaned against a tree pounding the side of a double-bitted ax into his palm. “I see one of them fellers that should be taking a leak in the Men’s Room dangling his bidness in the Girl’s Room, I know just how to make him the girl he wants to be,” he said, spinning the ax in his hand.

      “Watch it, buster,” said the ACLU chick, pointing a finger at the big man. “You take the law into your own hands and …”

      “Don’t worry, lady. I won’t be taking anything into my own hands, eh, eh,” spinning the ax.

     “Ah-ah-ah-ah, let me outta here,” howled the crazed explorer. He and Amerigo parted company with America’s natives and sprinted down the beach to their dinghy. “Ho, ho, gotta go!” he yelled as they pushed off and hastily rowed into the waves. “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 a Nazi demonstration. All of which would be friendlier places to discover. Hurry, Amerigo! Don’t look back!”

A Wild Reception for Columbus


As Columbus Day, the day set aside to honor the great explorer, who is said to have discovered America but really didn’t (he was too late)., 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.”

     “Would you now where Africa is?”

     “Naw, I dunno, man. It’s not my thing, ya know?” 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.

     “You poor thing! 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/her 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 male bully, that’s what you are,” eyes narrowed, a sneer showing a mouthful of crooked, yellow 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. Oh, by the way, the space to which you refer is called a galley.”

     “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 chick from the EPA. “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, MisterConqueror, don’t think owls and canaries should have rights too? And trees?”

     “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.”

     ‘’And gayths,” lisped Tinkerbell.

     “So do Innins.”

     “So do criminals. And victims.”

     “Victims? Victims of what?”

     “Anything.”

     “We need rules for tranthexuals. It’s not fair …”

     “Transexuals had better learn to use properly designated restrooms,” said a huge man standing on hillside nearby. He leaned against a tree pounding the side of a double-bitted ax into his palm. “I see one of them fellers that should be taking a leak in the Men’s Room dangling his bidness in the Girl’s Room, I know just how to make him the girl he wants to be,” he said, spinning the ax in his hand.

      “Watch it, buster,” said the ACLU chick, pointing a finger at the big man. “You take the law into your own hands and …”

      “Don’t worry, lady. I won’t be taking anything into my own hands, eh, eh,” spinning the ax.

     “Ah-ah-ah-ah, let me outta here,” howled the crazed explorer. He and Amerigo parted company with America’s natives and sprinted down the beach to their dinghy. “Ho, ho, gotta go!” he yelled as they pushed off and hastily rowed into the waves. “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 a Nazi demonstration. All of which would be friendlier places to discover. Hurry, Amerigo! Don’t look back!”

Wednesday, September 27, 2017

Stumblin' over "His" and "Hers"


I promised myself I was not going to write about religion, politics, or football this week. So I had to think over what was left to write about.

I was skunked until I somehow got into an article on MSN.com news about a Russian girl who went all out to acquire the looks and the physique of a Barbie doll – doll-like face, long blonde hair, exciting breasts, ultra-thin waist, long, slim legs with no cellulite. You get the picture.

 According to the pictures shown with the article, she came real close to looking exactly like a Barbie.  The part about her I didn’t get was that she was very rude to people less attractive than she (she compared Sarah Jessica Parker to a horse. While I never considered Parker a raving beauty, I don’t think “horse” was an apt, or a kind, description, especially coming from someone who spent every minute of the day trying to look more beautiful. Personally I think the Russian babe missed the mark. Up close, she appeared too “made up” to be beautiful.)

Apparently, this chick, who is heavy into spirituality, has a large following of Russian dames trying to look and act as she does. It’s good to know that there are at least some girls trying to look fit. There sure aren’t too many of them around here with the same mind set.  I’ve seen far too many young women walking around with rolls of fat protruding from under their tank tops and with thighs of the dimensions of a Russian weight lifter. When these gals bend over, we’re all treated to the “plumber’s view” of their butts.  This kind of body is a gift from sitting around with a video game, eating potato chips and drinking Pepsi, and avoiding the gym like the plague.

While the girls strive not to look their best, modern-day boys tend to emulate them. I’ve never seen so many effeminate guys. They walk with a bit of a swish, and lisp as though there is something caught between two front teeth. When the girls at least remember to comb their hair, the boys don’t bother. There are none who own a comb or a brush, that or they’ve not been taught how to use them.

Over the years there have been many different dolls –some, stare into space, some cry ‘Mama” when moved, some go”wee-wee” when properly stimulated. I always figured these to be “girl” dolls, though they could have been any gender. The first dolls I remember being of different sexes were Raggedy Anne and Andy.

Now I see where Mattel (the maker of Barbi and her boy pal, Ken) have expanded their idea of the “all-American male.” Only from the looks of things, “all-American” is a bit of a stretch. I grew up in a time when men were men (remember that part of the “All in the Family” theme song that went, “Girls were girls, and men were men; Mr. we could use a man like Herbert Hoover again.” Men looked like men, men talked like men, men dressed like men, and they knew how to comb their hair. We are surrounded now by what has come to be known as “metrosexuals.” I’m not entirely sure what that means, but I think it has to do with a mix of heterosexual and homosexual, metros being the guys that sort of look like guys but swish when they walk and lisp when they talk, and haven’t made up their minds who to sleep with yet (Maybe they never will).

 Mattel’s new metrosex dolls possess different skin tones , different hairstyles, different heights and builds, but from the looks of things manliness is passé. There are no dolls with beards or baseball caps. No bald heads. None are carrying a fishing pole or, God forbid, a rifle.

The average man in the East is a man by nature, the average man in the West is a man by culture. Western tradition held that a man needed to be a man: act like man, dress like a man, (which meant combing your hair before coming to the dinner table), and not taking any crap off anybody. And going hunting and fishing, playing football. (Soccer was out‒it was considered a girls’ game.) Much like it was here in the East, but wearing a cowboy hat and boots, and driving a pickup truck.
 I’m thinking we manly mendare I say macho menwill in a few years be replaced by “guys” that aren’t quite

Thursday, September 21, 2017

Taking $ from FDA Bad for Public Health


Sometimes I get a little weary about the laxity in standards in this country. I really wonder if there is a companyanywherewho wouldn’t do anything it takes to sell its products. Legal or illegal, moral or immoral, whatever it takes, as long they didn’t get caught.

For instance, there is a popular soda pop company that started selling its beverage in the 1800s. To insure a steady stream of customers, the company laced its drink with cocaine, which company officials knew was addicting. After addiction became epidemic, and hospital wards were swarming with newly minted cocaine addicts, the government stepped in and put a stop to the practice of drugging Americans in an attempt to get them to buy more of the company’s  soft drinks. Question: Do you think for a minute this company would not again begin the practice of lacing its beverages with cocaine if it was thought they could get away with it? And how do we know it’s not happening now? Can government agencies be trusted to periodically check the products of the beverage companies for addicting drugs. How can we be sure that a fat check sent to, say, the FDA couldn’t persuade one of its officers to turn the other way when samples of drug-laced beverages are submitted for testing?

You would likely think, Well, aren’t there rules to prevent such a practice?

The answer is, yes there are.

You might ask, Don’t American taxpayers pay the government (through taxation), which in turn pays the salaries of FDA officials to enforce the rules to protect those who eat, drink, and use medications approved by this department of the government?

You would think the answer would be an unequivocal Yes! But you would be only half right.

You see, the government pays only a part of the money that supports the FDA. Guess who pays the other part. If you said the industry that the FDA was created to oversee, you would be right.

Unbelieveable, given the sleezy reputation of the pharmaceutical companies, but absolutely true.

Since the Prescription Drug User Fee Act of 1992, which says companies seeking approval for new drugs or drug updates must fork over user fees to the FDA, the pharmaceutical companies pay half the support for the agency. Before 1992, we taxpayers paid the whole bill, which, it would seem, makes the process much safer.  Remember, the drug companies are the ones who publicly say they will finance the testing of such-and-such experimental drug, but when the results don’t support the theory, they secretly discontinue testing, rearrange the data and submit bogus results for approval. The 1992 law says forget all the expensive preparation and just submit the crapola. We’ll take care of everything. Doesn’t that make you feel safe, though?

As this report is a bit out of sync with what I usually write, perhaps an explanation is in order. The reason I bring this up (seeing as the law has been in effect for 25 years) is that, according to statnews.com  Trump budgeteers plan to reduce the FDA’s budget by one billion dollars in the 2018 budget. The plan will mean that drug companies cough up higher user fees than in the past. Big Pharma is not accustomed to losing money via reduced profits and so can be expected to recoop what they can. Higher product prices, of course, but the most disturbing aspect is the possibility of “buying” the approval of a drug that may not be ready just yet. Or ever be ready.

I don’t think reducing the funding available for the proper inspection of medicines sold to the public is a safe and proper way to save money. There must be other places from which money can be removed that isn’t so potentially deleterious to public health.

The Flip Side