Going Straight to Heller

That’s “District of Columbia v. Heller.”

Folks, I know most of you don’t like guns… it’s statistical with my demographic, gotta accept that, but I’m gonna give you the big news. Just don’t kill the messenger. The Supremes have decided that yes, indeed, when those white guys (they were not yet old) got together to form our nation, they did mean that guns belong to everyone and no one can take them away. Well, you know, not everyone. If you saw a maniac about to commit mayhem with a gun, you could take it away. That was common sense, not worth mentioning.

But what I love about this case is that the interpretation of the Second Amendment has been a question of grammar for years, and now it has been decided, and explicated in a long, humorous brief by Justice Scalia, writing for the majority. He speaks of the Looking Glass, and the Mad Hatter. And makes other lovely linguistic points on his way to telling us what the Bill of Rights means when it says, “the people’s right to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.” The “well-regulated militia” is just part of a prefatory clause, and you don’t have to own a uniform to entitle you to protect yourself with a handgun. There is even a Linguist’s Brief that was considered by the court.

Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ve lain awake nights trying to clarify this, and now it is clear. I haven’t read much of the two dissenting briefs. (I wanted to bask in the writing of this modern-day Mark Twain.) But the dissenters do seem to be stretching and squirming, to satisfy the Brady Bunch.

You can find it all at:

http://www.nraila.org/media/PDFs/HellerOpinion.pdf

Justice Scalia gets an A for his paper.

But what is this going to mean to you? Well, nothing, actually. Nothing right away. All it says is that DC must issue a license to Heller for the piece he possesses. And it doesn’t have to be dissembled and trigger-locked. It can be ready to roll. It’s not clear that law-abiding DC residents will be able, any time soon, to avail themselves of this privilege, as there are no gun shops in the district, and it is not legal to ship guns in.

Justice Breyer, in a dissent that goes on and on about social costs and gun deaths, wonders about whether the framers intended to guarantee a right to possess a loaded gun near swimming pools, parks and playgrounds. (Of all the places, that’s where they’d want it. It’s a citizen’s right and obligation to protect his, and everybody else’s, children.) He worries about children picking up a loaded gun from their parents’ bedside table, as if the framers had no children or bedside tables of their own. Here’s the catch. The children knew how to use the guns. Safely. Responsibly. Ever hear the lyrics, “Kilt him a b’ar when he was only three”? That’s “Davey Crockett (King of the Wild Frontier.)” Speaking of Davey Crockett, this past December, a five-year-old descendant of his, named Tre Merritt, actually did shoot a bear.

There didn’t used to be such a fuss made. Hubby said, “Honey, I don’t like you being alone in the apartment all day when I’m gone. I got you a gun. Here’s how you use it. Keep it handy in case you need it.”

But we’re talking about how Heller affects you. Breyer’s dissent bemoans that the decision “threatens to throw into doubt the constitutionality of gun laws throughout the United States.” Well, Amen. Didn’t “Brown v. the Board of Education” throw into doubt all school segregation? Didn’t “Roe v. Wade” throw into doubt all anti-abortion laws? Didn’t “Lawrence v. Texas” throw into doubt all state sodomy laws? That’s the point. The Constitution is the law of the land, and legislators sometimes run amok violating it.

Here’s something important. Laws that limit the rights of the people should be given the closest of scrutiny. Laws that empower the people should be given wide berth. We never would have had a Constitution, or perhaps even the Union, were it not for the Bill of Rights.

So now Number Two is right up there with Number One. Scalia makes clear that just as there are limitations to free speech, so there are limitations to the individual right to keep and bear arms. And not wishing to throw a wet blanket on the decision for my few pistol-packing friends, he indicates those limitations are many, and the scope of this decision is narrow.

Well, gotta go. I’m gonna fire off a few rounds. I want to be ready in case any of you didn’t like this, and are coming my way.

Gay Mirage

Pronounce that gay "marriage." That’s what it is. A gay mirage. Not unlike the illusion of any other lovers who cannot marry. “Oh, if only…”

If only what? If only I had that piece of paper that entitled me to get divorced.

Nobody seems to like the very civilized “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” which should be everybody’s mantra in their daily lives. But to get on your good side, I’m telling. I am not gay. Never occurred to me to be gay. But listen, guys, I know, that’s because I’m old. Old enough to know better. No, that’s not what I mean to say. The old saw just came out like a slip of the tongue. I’ll bet you don’t know what an old saw is. Well, neither do I. I know how the words are used, but it’s the generation before me that knew what an old saw was, and why that was funny. It’ll be the same way with “gay” someday. Nobody will know why that means "men who love each other." They won’t know there was ever a difference between a man and a woman and a man and a man.

Hey! How come he’s so hung up on men? What about a woman and a woman?

What about it? That’s sisterhood. Not unlike being a nun. Nothing gets in, nothing comes out.

I know what you’re thinking. That I’ve been inoffensive and decent of late; you almost wouldn’t recognize me. And now, I’ve fallen off the wagon; my mind’s back in the filthy gutter.

Wrong. It’s not filth. The Supremes told Texas it wasn’t. It’s life as usual, with a minor change in the cast.

Would you believe that when I was young there weren’t any homosexuals? All right, there were some, but they were few. You knew they existed, but you didn’t know any. Do you think half the population lived in closets? I don’t. I think it wasn’t on the menu. The ones who were, were. They found out for themselves, without anyone asking or telling them. Now, it’s a choice. Which are you? And you’re badgered with the question as soon as you enter school and have your first health class. What’s the answer? Fast, now, you don’t want to get marked down.

Well, it sure as hell is easier to get along with your own sex. Hey, they’re just like you. Why bother trying the other thing when this is so easy, and comes so naturally, with your buddy.

In my terms, that’s simply called not growing up.

So… now these people who chose not to grow up wish to marry their buds. Well why the hell not their dogs? They’re companionable, they sleep with you, they will truly honor in sickness and in health, and you can’t beat a dog for “obey.” People love them more than they do their spouses. So why not? Different species? Can’t make children? Neither can two men.

If marriage is for the protection of children, you don’t need it, guys. Any child you have belongs to at best, one of you. He’s the one responsible, even if he’s set up house with a butterfly.

I’m all for living with your bud. Or your mother. Or brother. Or your cubicle-mate. Two can live cheaper than one. And you should love each other. Everyone should love his fellow man. You should not be penalized for lacking the document, issued by the state, signifying that your children will not be bastards.

So, what to do. Let’s start with the 1040. You know those words: "Married Filing Jointly"? Let’s get that “married” out of there. Any two people should be able to file jointly.

Next, benefits and entitlements. If the state wants to subsidize a basic unit, any pair qualifies. Visit to a hospital? (Or prison?) One “designated other” qualifies. Tax-free inheritance? Ditto. Get the state out of the institution of marriage.

The churches or any other aggregation, should be free to vest themselves with the power to pronounce. And, by the way, set their own rules for the bestowing of the blessing. Such things shouldn’t be subject to the will of the majority. What we’re talking about is one of those famous inalienable rights.

Get the entitlements out of it, and same-sex marriage ceases to be an issue of concern to anyone but the community that sanctifies it. To get your government goodies, your state-given rights and privileges, you will not be asked, and will not have to tell, who puts what where, when, or how.

No Sooner Said Than Done

This was sent to my gmail account a couple of hours after “Macaca” appeared in these pixels. So what does that mean folks? Is my wish the universe’s command? Did I conjure it up? Have I changed the world? Did it happen while we weren’t looking? Or is there an underground movement to put Jim Webb on the ticket? Does Cyberspace really exist, and can it run its own campaign?

The “poster” is courtesy of Jay Wyatt, who is apparently crawling the web for Webb, all through the night. His message is “Feel free to use this as you like.” Though whether he has the right to tell me to feel free is something I don’t know. Apparently he’s been doing it for a month.

On the Internet, everything is happening all the time. Everything you can imagine, and then some. Your universe is composed of that information which happens to make it to you. Each person has his own, private, unique, universe. Could it be true of the real one as well?

Anyway, there it is – the “poster”. An Obama trial balloon? A grass root movement of one? Webb’s own campaign? Or a fait accompli? Pick your universe, and jump in.

But here’s a point: Everybody knows that being anti-gun has, and still can, cost a Dem the election. With Webb as Veep, Obama’s packing heat.

They look good together, don’t they? The redhead makes up for the missing blonde that he hung out with in the primaries. It’s something new in the color scheme.

A war-no-more and a military man. The Lefty and The Redneck.

Macaca

Did that word make you wince? Did it make you twist your mind to remember where you heard it? It was George Allen you heard it from. Big, beefy guy, looks like he likes a good steak. Hail fellow well met. Back-slapper. After a few friendly beers he’ll invite you to arm-wrestle.

He was supposed to be John McCain. That’s right. George Allen was slated to be this year’s Republican nominee for President of the United States. But no. A cameraman working for his opponent got to him. He called the young man of Indian extraction “Macaca”. Whether or not Allen knew it, to many this is a racial slur.

It’s only because he was badgered by the opposition, who sent cameras to all his events, that we found out in time what kind of man he is.

And what kind of man is that? It’s the kind of man who thinks he can say anything. Who’s so sure of himself that he lets himself go; he indulges in being himself in front of us because he has no fear of rejection. Maybe too much unconditional love as a child. He either thought he could get away with calling the guy “Monkey” (and not in a nice way), or he didn’t think. The second is more likely, and worse.

There were repercussions. The Senate election was cosmically close. It took two days before the world knew that Allen had lost by less than half a percent, and the Senate had shifted to the Dems. It was not 50-50 with Big Dick casting the tie-breaker for the Reps but 51-49. One word and BAM! Just like that, the Dems control the Senate and every committee. And something else had happened. There was no way now that George Allen could run for President.

So why am I bringing up all this old stuff? Because there is further irony born of this slip of the tongue. George Allen didn’t suck up his annoyance, and thereby lost a sure-win election to Jim Webb.

That name sound familiar? He’s on the short list for the Democratic nomination for Vice President of the United States.

Mr.Webb is a man of many talents. So many, you get the idea he can do anything. When called upon to be a Senator, he became a good enough Senator in a year and a half to be a possible Vice President. Could be in eight years, he’ll be what George Allen was supposed to be this year. His party’s presidential nominee.

How’s that grab you, Mr. Allen? You’re not going to be president and in eight years, he might be.

But maybe they’re right, and no Republican can win this year, let alone one named George. But maybe, just maybe, you were young enough and brash enough to capture the minds and hearts of some of the kids and ladies the Dems locked up during the Primaries. Maybe, just maybe, you were what it took to win.

And George, we know you like nick-names. How, pray tell, would you have referred to your opponent, Mr.Obama?

“I’m No Good Without You”

From “All of Me” : “Why not take all of me … Your goodbye left me with eyes that cry … How can I ever make it without you?”

Have you noticed something’s missing? It’s not so much fun to see Obama anymore. He’s not quite as pretty. Or as young. Or as smooth talking. Where did all those “uhhhhs” come from? Damned if he doesn’t sound scared…hesitant. And he looks tired. Haunted.

Could it be he’s missing his scintillating blonde other half? Her experience plus his fresh face made a satisfying, sufficient whole.

There are a few factors at work. First, the obvious one. Color. I said Color. Not race. Race has nothing to do with this. Race is real, color is illusion. We’re talking about illusion. Put a woman in a black dress, black shoes, black hat … the works. Got ‘er? Somber, right? Funereal. No fun in her. Put a white stripe around the brim of that hat, and she’s dramatic, sophisticated. Now you can take her anywhere.

Stand Obama on a street corner. Good-looking guy, but no partricualr pizzazz. Put the blonde chick on his arm, we all take notice.

It’s not race. It’s contrast. He was pure, she was tainted. Now that she’s gone, we can see his past only looked white compared to her black one. Now he’s the one who has to fight off accusations of taking money, of hanging around with the bad boys, of being what they both are, a politician. Compared to Hill’s grab for power over our lives, his looked mild. Now he’s closing in. His wife says he’s not going to leave us alone, he’s going to get us to see it his way. That’s just what the blonde said, isn’t it? His flight instructor is gone. He’s going solo, flying high. Higher than she ever did.

There’s more. We didn’t have to worry about his innocence when we saw him on stage with Hill. Big Mommy was there to more than make up for it. To whip him when he stepped out of line, to chastise him when he got silly. We were always on his side, but that was because someone else was there to take him in hand. We didn’t have to do it. Now he’s out on his own, doing his deals, taking on his people, making grandiose promises he can’t fulfill. We want to yell STOP! But he can’t hear us. Where’s that Mommy he used to have with him everywhere? Call her!

But a lot of you don’t care. You see it, but you refuse to acknowledge that there’s something less exciting, less assuring, less compelling in Barack without the blonde lady by his side. There was strength in their battle. Security in their embrace. We had it all. You don’t want to give it up. You’ll ignore what doesn’t fit your pretty picture. You’re not so crazy about Barack anymore, but you want Change, baby, Change. CHANGE!

Do you? Be honest. Aren’t things going good for you personally right now, whether you hate W or not? When you look around, aren’t most of the people you know doing well? And the ones that you’re worried about, are they complaining? Their TV screens are as big as yours, their clothes are snappy, everybody’s looking goddamn good. Yes, some people have fallen off the train. So put them back on. Don’t dismantle the track!

I’m going to whisper this, because I don’t think you can take it full blast: change is not always for the best.

Woo! Did you hear what he said? Stuff his mouth with socks. Make him shut the hell up. We want CHANGE! CHANGE! CHANGE!

None of you have ever watched The Twilight Zone? You haven’t met the devil there, in any of his many guises? You didn’t learn to read the whole contract? It’s in the small print, what sort of change you get. We have some poor, yes. But change could mean we all become poorer than the poorest of them. You think they’ll thank you for that? Our entire house of cards could collapse if we start shuffling them around. The world is in a bad way internationally, but we all know it could get much worse. Our place in it is in jeopardy, but we still hold it. The wrong kind of Change could throw it away.

You know this is true, but you want to have faith. Faith in the magic word “Change.”

Nobody ever heard these words?

“Make me a malted.”

Poof! You’re a malted.

“Oh, but I didn’t mean…”

Sorry, Buddy, you have no mouth, and someone’s already slurping you up through a straw.

Another Brick in the Wall

I have a bone to pick (not mine) with the people who tell me school has nothing to do with politics. School has had to do with politics since the jackboots of colonial Massachusettes tore the children from the bosoms of their families and took them off by force to be edjicated in the government schools.

And you smug New Yorkers, who think your lottery losings go to “Education.” Education doesn’t get one additional penny. Education was already paid for. It doesn’t “go” there. It goes directly into the general fund. You can imagine what that is.

Do you not, people, realize, that the (very likely intellectually inferior) individual telling your children untruths, ex cathedra, could be making six figures per annum to fill their little heads with propaganda, at least some of which you might not like? While down here in the streets, we’re supposed to feel sorry for them because seventy-five years ago, teachers didn’t make much. Those were teachers who taught. These are teachers who make money. There is a small overlap, there always is, and you are fortunate if you know of one you’d like to defend.

However, making money isn’t a crime. Go for it! This is America. But please… we got rid of slavery, didn’t we? Don’t do it on the backs of helpless captives. If a kid wants to go to another school, let it go. If its parents want it to go to another school, let it go. Give it back the money you’re holding to teach it and let it hand it over to a school its parents prefer.

Notice the lack of sexism in referring to the child as “it.” Reasonable. Once sex sets in, all learning bets are off. School should end at 13, people should go about the business of getting sexual satisfaction and starting families while they’re young enough to play with them, then go back to school when they can breathe a sigh of relief at being able to sit down and take a load off. When they can keep their minds on their heads instead of their hormones.

Do you know why we have this peculiar situation in which the citizens cry for the inner-city child in the bad school and refuse to release it? Where everyone must report in to some sanctified institution in order to be turned out alike? It’s called “Union”. The Teachers Unions are very big. Approximately one out of every thirty people has to be a teacher, in order for us all to get taught. That’s a lot of salary, the higher the better, to tap for union dues.

The teachers have united against the rest of us in order to keep us from taking our children out of their schools and putting them in schools we think are better. Who says they’re better? Everybody with bucks.

Barack Obama has a chance to give children back to their parents. Isn’t he the guy who decries the loss of family? Well tell me, Barry, what’s the point in “family” if they take your kids away and tell them not to listen to you. Families have no children anymore. The school has taken them and turned the parents into evening-shift Teacher's Aides. You could turn this all around, Barry, by simply saying you think the kids in DC should be able, like any rich kids, to go to the schools their parents think most suitable.

Yours do. And what will they do when you’re sitting pretty in the White House? You think you have two choices: Go to school with a bunch of snobs or attend a failing public school to prove a point. I have a way out for you. Merge the White House and the Little Red Schoolhouse. Hire a few excellent teachers and set up the kids’ education. Sound lonely? No social interaction? Offer twenty scholarships, the students drawn by lottery from the DC public school system. The Malia and Natasha National Home School. Let’s elevate some people at the bottom all the way to the top. Isn’t that what your message of hope is hoping for?

You’ll need a school librarian. Maybe Laura will stay on. She’s especially good at working with those who through no fault of their own, may be linguistically challenged.

Bringing It All Back Home

So… what about it, you Dads and Moms. Do you do your kid’s homework? Do you think that’s fair? I know you’re pretty smart, or you wouldn’t be reading this sophisticated blog. Do all the kids in Derek’s class have mommies and daddies who read blogs? Who deal with words? Who were pretty good at homework themselves? If your kid’s in a private school, the answer is most likely yes. They’re smart enough to care enough to send to the very best. But what about all those people you feel so sorry for, whose kids are stuck in public school and who, by the way, you don’t want to escape, what about them? Their parents don’t have what it takes to get them to a private school, whether it’s money or brains (there’s said to be some correlation), and you know what? They aren’t smart enough to help their kids with their homework. Not like you, and that’s who they’re competing against.

Don’t you have better things to do with your kid than to sit at the kitchen table after dinner trying to figure out his math problems? Why the hell doesn’t the teacher do it? If the subject is math: she can’t. Yes, I said “she.” Most of them are “she”s. If they’re “he”s, they can probably do the math. What’s she getting paid for? I’ll tell you what, to go to St. Croix over Easter vacation. This math business? Let the parents take care of it. They brought the kids into the world, didn’t they?

Which brings me to something personal. My Father’s Day card brought on some irate moms, who thought I was belittling dads. They blame my single state and my lack of fatherhood. They want to know why I am the way I am. Well, how am I? I’m a free man, for better or worse, as they say in an important ceremony during which you relinquish that state. Do I miss having children? You gave me the answer: "You don’t know what you're missing." Right. I’m blissfully ignorant. As most men would be, if left in the natural state.

But not most women. Especially women who’ve tried everything they could to get pregnant – except having unprotected sex with someone they had the hots for. Why do you think there are so many unwed mothers? They’re not doing it with their husbands. Not that there’s anything unattractive about a husband. They’re very attractive – to other husband’s wives.

But we were talking about homework. I was saying you’ve got better things to do with your kids. Spend some quality time with them. Whatever you think is quality time, Mom, not what some other woman decides your boy should do.

The world is so big – even the inner city world – that to wallow in representations when the real thing is right outside your door (and if you don’t like it there, a car, bike or subway ride away) is a SIN. Give your kids the real thing, while it’s still here.

And what is all this homework anyway? Kids have to move. They don’t need another stint in the chair. You want to know why kids nowadays have such fat asses even the teachers are getting after them? Well how do you hatch a big, fat ass? Sit on it!

Daddy-O

And a Happy Father’s Day to one and all – fathers, mothers, children, everybody involved in the family deal. Father’s at the head of the table today, back where he used to be, before paternity leave and breast-pumps, before he took the second car to work because Mom makes more money than he does, before he had to do his kids’ homework every night or get yelled at by the teacher.

Today’s your day, Dad. Look sharp.

I have every reason to believe that I am not a Dad, and so I operate on that assumption. No one has ever come after me for child support, no one has ever surprised me with a request for an interview for a college paper about his or her birth-father. I was never careless – much like a worker on dangerous machinery. In a regular practice, you can’t afford to make even one mistake. One mistake and it’s game over.

My Daddy, rest his soul, is dead. So’s my Mom. I am therefore not beholden to anyone to recognize this day. And yet, somehow, my subconscious played a dirty trick on me, and I had a close-to-waking dream about the biggest “Daddy” of them all, the man in the world who inspires the most awe, the most fear, the most, in a back-handed, cynical sort of way, the most respect, of all the other “mothers” up there in your top tier.

In the morning's second sleep before getting up, I dreamed that Bin Laden had released a tape (a call to arms) but there was a sound track - he was singing “Big Mamu.” Now I don't know - still don't - what the hell Big Mamu is, but I got Google. And damned if Mamu isn't in Afghanistan. So out comes the World Atlas and sure enough it's in the gazetteer and where is it? The Pakistan border. I should buy me a ticket and go hunting for $25 million. That would be a Father’s Day present!

Well, I’m going to let you go now… (as they say when they no longer want your company). You’ve had a busy day, got a bit drunk, have you? Like to put the head down and rest.

War of the Words

Looks like there’s a little trouble in Pakistan. Who would be willing to go over and talk to them? Let’s have a show of hands. Why there’s Barack Obama, jumping up and down, holding a tiny American flag. Isn’t that the same guy who said he wanted to go over there and talk – to anybody? Send him now! Give peace a chance! Can it get any worse? Put him on the next flight out. It’s an opportunity for him to make up for that 37. If he can pull this off, we’ll know he’s the real thing.

Anybody out there getting a little scared? The Supremes just gave away another shelf in the store. Anyone, anywhere, caught murdering Americans is entitled to a free trial at the expense of those very Americans. They will be shipped to America, courtesy of the same, put up in her finest rest spots (so much better than the best at home) and make the rounds of the Sunday talk shows. If there’s any point of view we want to hear, it’s the point of view of people who want to off us. Perhaps we can change their minds, perhaps they have good reason and we should help, not hinder, their desire to remove us from the face of the earth. Not only turn the other cheek, but hand them a carving knife to go at it.

Nothing to do, I guess, but make sure those guys don’t get here in the first place. Send them to the seventeen virgins (the old girls must be getting kind of tired) on sight. No point bringing them back here – they’ve got lawyers. Anyone who watches television knows that once they’ve got a mouthpiece, their lips are sealed. And there’s no way to pry them open anymore, either. No more “torture.” As if there was “torture.” Come on, guys, you and I (not you Sesame Street youngsters) know what torture is. Torture is the iron maiden. Yeah! I knew you’d remember. Torture is having your finger nails pulled out one by one. Torture is…I won’t go on. It hurts more just to hear it than it does to actually experience what is defined as torture today. There’s a way you can tell if it’s torture. Are you ready? Ready to hear how to tell if you’re being tortured? TORTURE HURTS!

“Hey, I’ve got an idea, let’s put this pair of pink undies with flowers all over them on his head!” “No, No. Not the underpants! Arggggh!”

Come on.

Loud rock music, I can see. That can hurt and could thereby qualify as torture. However, it is a torture that many Americans regularly and voluntarily subject themselves to. They’ll pay to have it done to them.

And what is the biggest, baddest, meanest, worstest torture of them all? Water-boarding! What is it like to be thrown around in the water, dashed by its weight, overpowered by it and smashed against it, swallowing enough to think you’re drowning? Ask any surfer, if you can get him to stop and talk to you while he’s paddling back for more.

It is not fair to change the meaning of words. “Marriage” does not mean “we love each other.” “Rape” is not what happens when the gentleman of that nice high school couple turns eighteen, two months before his girlfriend. And “addicted” doesn’t mean you are overly enthusiastic about something.

These words have meanings. Don’t mess with them. Get your own words.

Double Date

Thank you for the warm welcome back, those of you were informed, those of you who dropped in unexpectedly, and you few who were passing by and wandered in. We owe a special thank you to the young lady who pointed out there was no way to subscribe to the blog. Now there is, at the very bottom of the page.

Some of you were annoyed that there was no place for comments. It’s not that I’m not interested in your opinions – you know how I hang on your every word (don’t you wish literally), but I never liked orgies. I like my contacts one at a time. I like a lot of space around us, we two, so we can get to know each other without being poked and prodded by the couple or trio next to us. And I’m possessive. I don’t like my contacts contacting each other – not in front of me, or behind my back. I like discretion, in the sense of separateness, apartness, not in the sense of good manners. But maybe they come down to the same thing.

I’m now about to throw manners out the window, and get down and dirty about something I want you all to think about it, and that is, Do You Really Want Hillary as Vice President? I know you think you do, those of you who want the party to continue (and you can take that party as the Democrats, or the blast they’ve been throwing for us. But think of the implications. Will Michelle be able to take hot Hillary as second in command? Won’t she resent their private rendezvous, their tete-a-tetes? Will the two little girls, fresh out of their baths and dressed in their jammies look at Daddy and say, “Daddy, are you going out with Mrs. Clinton again tonight? You have Mommy, don’t you?” Indeed. You have Mommy. Why do you need another second in command?

And there’s Bill. You haven’t forgotten about Bill, have you, because that would be a mistake. Bill is never quiet. He never rests. His brain is always in a ferment, always probing every situation to see how he can insinuate his big talent. Bill is, first and foremost, a ladies’ man. The man has no hang-ups about sex. He loves the dollies – black, white and yellow, and if they come in any other flavors, he’ll order up one of each right now. Hillary’s finding some excuse to be with her beautiful black boss every night. He pictures poor Michelle sitting alone in front of the telly, her long, lanky limbs draped over the chair…why not give her a buzz, ask if she’s got anything on tonight and whether or not it could be him. And why wouldn’t she go? Show that man of hers a thing or two, and let the blonde, brazen hussy know that two can play the same game. Like they’ve got such critical things to talk about. Who do they think they are?

Gotta happen, right? You know it. And Hillary will completely remake the boy wonder. She’ll be his new spiritual leader – the woman who knows more than he does and doles it out by the spoonful. Their first tour was a big hit. The second campaign would be another. My bet is, they’ll never stop touring. As a team, they’ll tour the globe, playing every major city in the world. When their terms are over, they’ll go to Vegas and play the big rooms for big bucks. When that wears thin, they’ll settle into a lounge show for a long retirement. That’s if they’ve managed to fix Social Security.

Ten Pin Alley

Hank Harwood Here. Where, I can’t exactly say. But I’m doing well – nobody closing in on me.

Have you been getting away from politics? Or are you still talking to people – maybe getting into fights. Not that there’s much left to fight about these days - you got yourselves a candy-date. Sweet home pal Obama.

So far nothing has turned up about Barack to really turn me off. Not even the Right Reverend Wrong. He’s an actor who had a good steady gig. And Barack? Barack felt too white. He wanted to know what it was like to feel black. The Rev told him, and Barack, a good method actor, tried it on. Did it fit? That’s what we don’t know.

But why should we care? We’re all for searching for our identity, finding out who we are. What he was and how he got here is not what we care about. We care about what he is.

He’s a man who bowled a 37.

I want you to think about that, all you people who have ever bowled. Have you ever bowled a 37? I don’t think so. All right…he’s not familiar with the game. Should we hold that against him? No. But what we must hold against him is in ten frames, repeating the action twenty times, he could not figure out what to do to improve. He was unable to alter the failure. Unable to think quickly, under pressure, and change his approach. Sound familiar? Does it sound like change?

I submit that a man who did not rise to the occasion while bowling cannot be expected to do so in the far more complex game of geopolitics.

What do we really know about Barack Obama? Who knows him? Well…how about his wife? What we have from her is, “He’s only a man.” What we have from her is, “He was cute. That helped.” What we have from her is, “He’s stinky.” What we have from her is that he throws his socks all over the floor.

Can we afford to have a president we have to pick up after? Can we afford to have a president with an offensive odor? (The man intends to be a diplomat – to himself sit down with heads of state. For instance we know that Hugo Chavez is sensitive to odors. He claimed he could smell sulfur the day after W spoke at the UN.) Can we afford to have “only a man” for President? No. We tried that, and decided we needed a God. We thought it was Obama, but we’re being told otherwise. Have we simply fallen for a pretty face?

There is no time to look for another God. One is not looming on the horizon. Maybe the convention better go for the girl. Ohhhh. That gives me the chills, and not the good kind. The girl is scary. The girl keeps promising she thinks only of me, will never forget me, will never leave me alone. Who likes to hear things like that? Other girls. Boys don’t cotton to clinging. They shake it off. They run for their lives.

Run, Guys, Run! But where? Why to old John, over there. John’s through making a muck of things. Every night he dreams about McCain-Feingold and how it might keep him from being President. But he’s still willing to tell ’em what they want to hear. Give California “global warming” and California could give you the world. John is allowed to change his mind on anything. He’s a maverick. He can say and do anything. If I were his old enemy, I’d be quaking in my boots at the thought of McCain excusing himself after the inauguration and going straight to the guys with the football to, finally, as they used to say, “Nuke Hanoi!”