Cagey B.

Beautiful performance, wasn’t it? Beautiful place; even the fireworks were good on-screen. And Barack was magnificent – after he gave you his “narrow message”, which you already knew by heart.

But how many of you, in your ecstasy, were able to read between the lines? Not many, if I know you. And I do. So I’m here to show you where Barack is hiding out on you, so you can get on his tail and find out what his true intentions are.

To begin, he’s going to reward, with lower taxes, the workers and the small businessmen who deserve it. Hear that, guys? Small businessmen. When did they get added? Wasn’t he just for the workers? The small businessmen are the ones who don’t want unions, who don’t like minimum wage, whose fondest hope is to become bigger businessmen. Some of them, in some years, are fortunate enough to fall into the category of the rich. Aren’t those the people who are supposed to be paying more taxes, not less? Barack has been slaloming down a slippery slope and taking you with him. To get the nomination, the slalom was a hard left. To capture the Presidency, it’s a hard right. Will you be able to hang on for the rest of the ride?

In ten years, he’s going to end our dependence on oil from the Middle East. Didn’t the phrase used to be “end our dependence on ‘foreign’ oil”? And wasn’t it, before that, dependence on “fossil fuels”? We’re not being weaned. Barry knows that we’re addicts. We want our oil. We want to guzzle, guzzle, guzzle. And not just in cars, either. How about that ten day cruise to see the wonders of nature? The really efficient QE2 burns 18 tons of fuel per hour. That comes to well over a ton apiece for each of the eighteen hundred guests on an Atlantic crossing.

He’s going to tap our natural gas reserves. Did you hear that? Didn’t you say you don’t want anyone to lay a hand on your planet anymore? What the hell do you think “tap” means? Get out the Novocain. You’re gonna get drilled.

He’s going to give us clean coal technology. Here come the smokestacks, just not quite as black and greasy.

He’s going to find ways to “safely harness nuclear power.” Were you disarmed by the word “safely”? Or is it simply that “nuclear” does not excite the same fear neurons as when the word is pronounced ‘nuke-u-lar’? Baby, you’re being Obamaboozled. You’re getting nukes. You’re getting nukes no matter who gets elected.

In order to provide every child a world-class education, he’s going to make sure every child goes to college. But he’s pulling the wool over your eyes. It isn’t college anymore. It’s only a redefinition of the age at which our students achieve the minimum standard. Everyone is not desirous of “four more years”. Some are not even capable of it. Even now, colleges teach remedial English and remedial math. What they’re trying to remedy is the failure of our high schools. But if you take a peek further back, it fell to the high schools because the elementary schools weren’t getting it done. Ladies and gentlemen, a community college degree is what used to be called a sixth grade education. Barack’s college for everyone will be like finishing the eighth grade.

He’s going to make federal programs cost less. You know what that means? The only way to do that is to fire a whole lot of people. Maybe you. Where’s the commitment to the unions and the working class gone?

“We must keep America’s promise abroad.” Well, what is that promise? A lot of small, helpless countries think that indeed, we are the 911 (no pun intended) of the world. They expect us to come when they cry for help. Barack’s going to do that. He doesn’t like this war in Iraq, but that seems to be the only war he’s got anything against. He’s ready to pour more troops into Afghanistan. A far cry from peace and bringing the boys home. Barack is preparing us for four more years of war. The only “change” is the battlefield.

The Bush administration is all talk on the war on terror. He’s going to do something about it. Sounds like a hawk to me. “I will send our troops into harm’s way with a clear mission…” But he will send them!

He’ll “rebuild the military to meet future conflicts.” The man’s not a fool. He knows there are going to be future conflicts. Do you? Didn’t you think it was going to be pistachio nuts with the Ayatollahs, a cigar with Fidel and Raoul, and vodka shots with Putin? You were banking on Barack to make the lion lie down with the lamb. Ever read the Bible? The old Bible? Here’s a favorite refrain. “Hey, you know those people over the hill who plant and eat and have a lot of stuff because they don’t go to war? Let’s go get ‘em!” Barack’s read the Bible.

“We all put our country first.” You know what that means? You’re going to have to get on board and stop bashing America. I don’t know if you can do it anymore, it’s such a pleasant pastime. But Barack and Michelle are bowing out of the game. Leaving you alone with the tantrums you enjoy so much.

We have to restore our sense of common purpose, he says. Hard to do if you refuse to talk to the other side, and you guys seem very reluctant to reach across the aisle. You’re afraid if you touch a Republican, it might rub off on you.

“We don’t agree on abortion, but …” Isn’t this new? Not so long ago, we had to agree on abortion, or else! And it was supposed to be freely available and federally funded. The sentence ended with “… surely we can agree on reducing the number of unwanted pregnancies in the country.” Hey, that’s what Bush says.

He’s going to uphold the second amendment, which has recently been interpreted as an individual’s right to keep and bear arms. All he’s going to do is keep AK-47’s out of the hands of criminals. This is precisely the NRA position. The laws for keeping AK-47s out of the hands of criminals are already on the books, so all that’s needed is enforcement. Charleton Heston, I am pleased to say, would not be turning over in his grave to hear this news. Barack now supports my right to pack a piece.

Hey, you Gays out there? Did you hear what he said, or were you too busy with your hard-ons? You love him, don’t you? All he’s going to give you is civil amenities, the same as we all have. You can visit your partner in the hospital. You won’t be discriminated against. Neither will you be man and wife.

For immigration, all we have to do is send the babies back home with their mommies, so we don’t have a “mother separated from her infant child.” And, get this – I’m sure you didn’t – he doesn’t want employers undercutting American wages by hiring illegal workers. Bye-bye Nanny, we’re getting an expensive college girl to take care of Baby. And bye-bye gardener, roofer, and lettuce and tomatoes.

He’s going to move people from welfare to work. That means no more slacking off between jobs for you tech people who like to take government supported vacations between gigs. Work is the watchword. Not just for the laid-off factory worker you can’t quite imagine, but you!

“…that American spirit that binds us together in spite of our differences.” You guys are pretty good on black and white, but you stink on Red and Blue. You’re antagonistic, dismissive, or unapproachable. Think about your last encounter with someone on the other side. Either you raised your voice or you never opened your mouth.

“This election has never been about me; it’s about you.” Get that, baby? You’re the one who has to change. You’re the one who has to listen to other points of view instead of closing your ears and spewing rhetoric. You’re the one. He’s a figurehead, that’s all. He’s not going to do it; you are. So let’s see you spin that head of yours around till you can’t see sides, and can only see ideas whizzing by. Grab one of them and see how it grabs you.

No doubt about it, it’s a cagey B. we’ve got. Listen to him closely. Barack’s doing it to you. Like Putin did it to Bush when Bush looked in his heart. He saw what he wanted to see and what Putin wanted him to see. He didn’t see the KGB. And neither do you.

Lovely Lady Leads

On Monday night, the Dems seemed to be having quite a nice party. Who could fault them? I’ll tell you two whos. The media and the Republicans. And with what were they finding fault? The nice, relaxed tenor of the show. They don’t like the party. It’s too restrained. Too childish. Too ice cream and cake. Uncle Teddy and his seventeen godchildren, the progeny of two or three dead brothers. Had to be a Daddy to them all. And still is. Beeootiful Michelle Obama, newly minted, pulling down those basketball shoulders that like to hike up getting ready for the throw. Coiffed and eyebrowed to a tee. And with a smile. A smile, ladies and gentlemen. The camera kept flashing to a lady who must have been her mama, because this lady couldn’t smile at all, even though her daughter is about to become First Lady. No, Sir, this woman can’t let up. The frown is frozen. I thought Michelle’s was too, but I was wrong, and happily so. When Michelle stood up there in front of the huge audience, waiting for her word, the word that can make or break the campaign, what did she do? The girl giggled. Could there be anything more endearing than that? My heart melted. If there’s anything I know, it’s girls, and this was a genuine moment. Quite the opposite of Hill’s false tears.

Between her last furrowed faux pas and now, the lady has learned to act, and we are so, so grateful. Give us more of this kind of dedication. She did it for us. She read some parts of that speech fifty times, and still (except for the “you sees” that should have been deleted before the draft got out) she sounded like this was the first time all this had occurred to her, in exactly this way. She grew excited, emotional, cajoling, confessional, grand, and confiding. It was a fine trip. And she said, “…This is why I love America.” The woman who said she had never been proud of her country until it got smart enough to tap her husband for president. We all heard her say it. It was in all our minds when she flip-flopped. But do we care? Not a whit, because her face was so sweet all through her speech. Perhaps she has responded to our love. Perhaps it’s pure politics. Either way, it’s a bridge Michelle has crossed. You can not stand before America, in a sheath the color of the Caribbean sea, that follows respectfully every curve of your athlete’s body, your stylish hair framing your piquant yet strong face, and hate the country groveling at your feet. You love yourself and you love America for creating you. Not unless America treats her husband the way she treated George Walker Bush, will Michelle ever hate her again. Then she’ll have a reason to develop the same sarcastic, one-sided smile Laura Bush, a woman she very much likes, has perfected – from the inside out. I doubt that she knows she’s done it.

I think that Michelle has been thinking, until now, that she would wake up. That the puppy in the dream was not nestled beside her in bed, that the monkey she bought in the vending machine would turn out to be a figment of her imagination. When she found herself in front of that audience in that gorgeous dress, having been worked on and worked over until she was a piece of art, she knew for the first time, this was reality.

And that should be the end of this post, because that was it for the first three days of the convention. The rest was so old hat it was impossible to stay awake and listen to the playback of tired old stump speeches. McCain was the only person in the country able to keep his eyes open – he was so exhilarated by the boredom his adversaries were propagating. The Dems are winding down. There wasn’t enough money for Hillary’s Botox. Once again, she looked her age – her neck a wreck, eyes bulging – and Shrillery was back! It hurt to hear her straining voice. What happened to the soft-spoken babe who’s been going around campaigning for her competitor these last few weeks?

Bill, as usual, said nothing, but I did notice, when he said it was hard to follow Hill’s wonderful speech, that he actually (literally, as Biden, Beau Biden, and Michelle say, too often and incorrectly) put his tongue in his cheek. Put it right in, and the cameras followed. You could see, in his open mouth, the slimy little devil slide right into his left cheek, and back past you to the right side. Tongue in cheek is obviously a basic biological tick called up when one tells a harmless little lie that everyone knows is a lie.


And he was no better. Neither was Biden. One long speech was written for all of them, then chopped into little pieces and put on the teleprompters for each of the major speakers. The best sight of the second night was when they flashed on Michelle, hair pulled demurely back, in a dress best described as “milkmaid” modern. Tonight, the bridesmaid, not the bride.

After Biden had us down and slumping in our seats, out came Barack. Second best shot of the night, their two backs, with their arms around each other. They looked like twins. But when they turned around, there it was. Chocolate and Vanilla, side by side, just like in an old-fashioned Dixie cup. Remember those, guys? Gotta be pretty damn old. Movie stars inside the big, round cover, under a transparent protective pre-plastic, paperoid protector. Collectibles.

No content in this post, right? That’s because the convention was conventional. There was no content. That was the purpose. Don’t stir up any dust. Just have a vast hall filled with people who boo and applaud out of synch because it takes a while for them to read the signs that tell them what to do, and they can’t tell from what they’re seeing and hearing. They made mistakes.

Mr. McCain I believe is holding his convention in a local McDonalds. So the place to be in the Twin Cities is Ron Paul’s Rally for the Republic. That’s Republic, not Republicans. This is the kickoff for the Campaign for Liberty. An independent endeavor for all you people who liked what Ron was saying before they dismissed him. This, by the way, is a movement that promises change unrelated to our red and blue divide. It’s just down the block from the McDonald’s. See you there! And maybe a lot of the media, too. What better way, as our president might say, to irreleventize McCain, than to go to somebody else’s party, when he’s holding his big bash.

Obama Pulls It Out

As the old dog said, “Pardon me while I hump for joy”. This old dog is so happy, he’s got your leg in a vise grip. It was not always so. Just yesterday, I watched the video of Biden, wearing shorts and longish hair, jump behind the wheel of a white club-cab pickup, take off down the driveway, and call out to reporters, “I’m not the guy!”

Could someone say that if indeed he was the guy? No. Not with Obama watching. Obama is a strict son-of-a-bitch. Like a nun in Catholic school, you know he’s quick with the ruler. Some of those times back there when Hill was being insolent, you could feel his desire to push her into the ground and be done with her. She was standing in his way. You don’t want to stand in Obama’s way. Not anymore. He’ll ride right over you.

Obama’s got what he calls a “narrow message.” So how could he stand for a clown delivering it? Biden’s already started turning the campaign into a catch-me-if-you-can, rolling down the road past those reporters and sending out the biggest, fattest lie he could tell. That, dear ones, is a lie. A playful lie, but an absolute untruth, unless you think that when Joe came home last night he found Obama’s van outside and Obama in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, waiting for him to get a few things together and come on over to Illinois to show up as his second.

Ah, yes, can you tell I am deliriously happy? I’ll tell you why, folks. Joe Biden reminds me of myself. A tall, good-looking old white guy who’s not ashamed of his height, and can stand up straight and look the world in the eye. Biden is funnier than hell and a lot hotter. You’re going to be checking in every day to catch his latest flash of wit. Like the one where they asked him in a debate, can he assure the American public that he can keep from running off at the mouth. “Yes,” says Biden. Camera switches to the moderator whose face is waiting for more. Then back to Biden, smugly smiling, lips tight shut. Then back to the moderator as he “gets it.”

Yes, this man plays with the foundations of our emotional understanding. He plays with words. His timing is exquisite. He’s Jon Stewart, with old-fashioned breeding. He doesn’t bludgeon you, he tickles you to death. You die laughing. That might be what’s happening to me. Right now, with the exception of national security, I don’t want to know what he thinks. I won’t like any of it, I’m sure. But I like him. I trust him. He’s superbly smart in a way none of the other candidates are. He can put things together.

When Joe Biden talks about his international dealings, you get the feeling he’s been sipping wine in the boudoir of every head of state. He’s knows what they think, what they want, what they’re like. He’s got a map in his head, and he is supremely capable of moving the pieces around on it. Now Barry doesn’t have to know a goddam thing about the Middle East. Not, that is, if he accepts Joey as part of his brain – lets him in there to tinker with his ideas.

There is precedent for that now. The agent of change was Cheney. Gore was the guy in the guest house. You feed him, you change his linens, but you don’t let him move the furniture around in your own home. Barack will, because the guy living in his guest house is the best fucking international designer you could hope for. Barack has other things to do. Like turning us into a slave nation where we’re all living in the guest house, have no say in anything, the food’s getting worse and worse, and they only come in to change the linens once a month. That’s where we’re headed with Obama.

But now he’s shown one thing. He’s not afraid to have a running mate with better credentials than he has. An enormous plus. It means his over-all administration can be better than he himself is, and that’s what we should always hope for, no matter how grand a leader we’ve found. Barry picked a Democrat with balls. He’ll have to let him off the leash sometimes, and that big white tail of his might slap a few notions down while it’s wagging. We really do not know what to expect. And that is exciting.

Tell me, folks, were you happy when you heard the news? Come jump on my private poll and whisper in my ear. I have not checked my mail; I don’t know what you’re thinking. Were you happy? Did you smile? Do you feel good? It’s almost like having Imus, another tall, good-looking loudmouth with a wicked tongue in his cheek.

I know you don’t like my harping on good looks, but I’m doing it for a reason. Obama does it, and I want you to notice, because it’s a large part of why he picked Joe Biden. Number one you already know. When he was teaching law, he’d use himself as an example and say, “Take Barack Obama. He’s a good-looking guy.” When he got up on stage after his three ladies had paraded into the gigantic venue, he said, “(Damn?), I have a good-looking family.” When he came out of the wings in Saddleback, he said to Rick Warren, “Good-lookin’ audience.” He had to say it twice to be heard over the clapping. Good-looking is on his mind. And now, he and Biden can go before the country, an old white god who has aged well, as a god should, and a young black one. The ancient leader in his leopardskin loincloth passing the information of the ages to his nubile sidekick, preparing him to take over, filling him in on all the secrets. That’s what Barack needs. A little filling-in.

And now Barry’s got a soldier who can stand up to McCain. Joe’s son will be in Iraq come elections. That balances McCain’s sordid experience. And does McCain really have anything else? Sure, the heads of state will see him. Out in the parlor, not in the inner sanctum. Tea instead of brandy. Diplomacy instead of truth. Biden gets to the bottom of things while McCain’s in a snorkel and fins, skimming along on the surface.

I’ll still have to go for McCain if Obama doesn’t shape up in certain serious arenas, which as I said, I don’t want to contemplate now, while I’m happy. Please, if you don’t mind, let me have a little more of that leg.

White Pickup

Edwardsian Drama

I was going to leave him alone, but you guys want to talk about Edwards. The reason I was going to leave him alone is that I understand man’s ( though not woman’s) desire for variety. It’s built into men. What is a man, after all, but an ejaculatory organ to perpetuate the race. He’s got arms, legs, and a head, for what? For his own brief enjoyment of Mother Earth? No. The arms, legs and heads are adaptations that the ejaculatory organ needs so it can do its job – outrun its food and its enemies, and hold or hold down, its opposite member, the cunt. Sorry, that’s the nicest sounding word I can find for it. Rhymes with hunt. Everybody likes the name Hunter, even if they don’t like hunters or hunting. It’s a good sound, and so is “cunt.” Get over it. Cunt is a cozy word.

Here’s more, if you don’t like that. The ejaculatory organ is designed to perform its function over and over and over again. Several times a day it could start another soul of its species. That’s what it wants to do, and to do it, it has to move fast. It can’t stick with one cunt, because that cunt takes his gift of life and sits around mulling it over for nine months. The factory is shut. That is not efficient. The ejaculatory organ must find another cunt and lay her up for nine months. Then he’s got two going for a small marginal expenditure on his whole endeavor. Get my drift? It’s what man was made to do. And woman was made to closet herself and be of no Darwinian use, nine months after nine months after nine months. Since this is true of all women, a man has to move around and cover a lot of territory, to finagle himself (for this he uses the head) into those few open slots.

Being an ejaculatory organ myself, and having moved fast and got around, though always with a magical balloon primitive man did not have, which prevented me from fulfilling my function here on earth, I have some sympathy with other ejaculatory organs. But not too much, because I have avoided promising myself to one other, and therefore feel entitled to all. Edwards not only promised himself, but paraded his steadfastness before us, told us it was one of the major virtues, and whisking out his sick wife, demonstrated for us the depth, though apparently not the distance, of his devotion. When he gets a few miles on it, he can outrun it.

But there is another reason why I find forgiveness in my heart for this fallen fellow. He does, after all, suffer, on top of being an ejaculatory organ, from being a lawyer. All the slime you ever thought that smile implied. What is the purpose of a lawyer? If he knows his client is guilty, it is to present a one-sided view – to make all signs that point to guilt disappear. To have such confidence in his image of the client as innocent that he can project that image to a jury.

Lawyers get so used to this kind of thinking – obliterating what doesn’t fit and shaping up the remainder to look like a whole – it is inevitable that they should want to try it out in their own lives. Give it personal form. Use their talents for themselves. See what it’s like to maintain a false picture day after day after day, if you’re with it all the time, not just in court. That leads many, fittingly, to turn to politics. Is it possible to lead a double life in the public eye and leave only the innocent image in the eyes of the electorate?

Edwards almost had to do it, to be all that he could be. That is, be the loving, caring husband of the valiant dying wife, and, as Rielle put it, a great man at night, and also in the morning.

Tell me, America, do you feel lied to, betrayed? Has someone been thumbing his nose at you all through his impassioned speeches about character? When you heard this news, did you think back to how you felt when the brave couple first came on stage to announce that one of them had breast cancer and nevertheless wanted the other to continue the campaign? How sad you felt? How it ruined your night? Well it didn’t ruin John’s night, did it? John doesn’t have ruined nights.

You know how it must have gone, don’t you? He moved her to his home state, to a gated community where she would be the neighbor of his good friend, now the reputed father of the baby. Whenever the twain should meet, all he had to do was say, “Off to see my best friend,” and away he could go to the hideout. If anybody knew she was on the scene, his friend was taking the rap.

But John got careless. He wanted to see his baby. He was no longer running for president, no one would be watching him, he could come and go as he pleased. But not, apparently, to the Beverly Hilton, where he was caught. Nabbed exercising his second life. Plucked from the realm of the decent and thrust headlong into the toilet of deceit.

And that’s where he’s swimming now, folks. We’re all on the shore, watching. Any of you going to jump in and save him? Not anyone who’s been good all these years. And you know what? Not anyone who’s been bad. Because John Edwards committed the worst sin of all. He got caught, and thereby made all of us complicit in his crime, and a little less safe in whatever lies we tell ourselves and each other. We have witnessed a liar with a way with words. And if you’ll notice, Mr. Edwards’ pronunciation of “liar” and “lawyer” are very much the same.

Johnny boy, you’re up the creek without a boat. Let’s see you paddle. Nobody’s coming to your rescue. You’ve embarrassed each and every one of us with your high-minded talk that we nodded to. Nobody doubted your goodness. Now nobody doubts your badness. We’ve looked behind the curtain, and we see the rest of the show. That sound you hear is us tearing up our tickets.

Here, John, I don’t like watching someone drown. I’m going to throw you a lifesaver. It’s coiled and round, and if you take it out of the package and blow it up, it just might float you home. And remember this little helper; it could come in handy in your future philandering.

National Enquirer

Red Shirt; Blue Shirt

If there’s anything that makes me sick, it’s hearing the two sides accuse each other of fear tactics. Hey people! Forget about “tactics.” Let’s deal with plain old fear. You guys on the right. Are you really going to tell me there’s nothing to fear in filling our air with fumes and choking out all the oxygen? Nothing to fear in being the only mammal left on the planet? What the fuck’s wrong with you? Don’t you have a heart? Don’t you care that your grandchildren – everybody cares about their grandchildren – won’t have anything to breathe, and will be going around in gas masks, living underground with artificial everything, never seeing the light of day or the stars of night? And why? Because you won’t budge an inch and admit that anything but you, matters.

Use it all up now, hurry, hurry, hurry, right now, preferably in my lifetime, don’t worry about down the line, the market will take care of it, someone will invent a substitute for oil, we’ll get off this planet and leave it to what’s left of the animals who can live in the stench we made. There’s nothing to fear but fear itself, don’t listen to the fear-mongers.

These are conservatives talking. Hey, aren’t conservatives supposed to…you know…conserve??? Aren’t you the guys who stand for the good old values, like having fish to go fishing about, not wasting food – now you want to burn it? If you can’t get them to drill for oil, you’ll burn up their food? Is that nice? You know that little plot of corn you grow in your back yard that feeds you for the summer? If you stilled it down to hooch, you’d get about a one gallon jug. You could ride maybe 20 miles away from home on it. But you couldn’t ride back. Mother Earth puts forth your sustenance, and what do you do? You go joy-riding on it. God’s gift to … not just man, but life … and what are you doing? Burning it up to go fast. Well, we know where you’re going. And we know how you’re getting there. Fast.

You over there on the left! I see you, sitting smugly on your narrow asses, watching me berate the conservative creeps who don’t care about the planet, who just want to suck it all up and turn it into Walmarts. You’re getting all full of righteous inner warmth, you post-scientific fairies. I mean that in the nicest way, as a kind of sexless sprite. (Not sex, really, gender. But I liked the s’s in “sexless sprite”, and for that matter, the f’s in “…fic fairies”.) No disrespect intended. Other than what is deserved.

But for what could you paragons of virtue – an old cliché, but apt, don’t you think – deserve disrespect? How about for refusing to fear terrorists because if you do, you can’t accuse the Bush government of using fear tactics? Such a shame. So many things you paragons can’t admit are real because Bush says they’re real, so you have to say they aren’t. Is that smart?

“Hey, Rudolph. That’s poison ivy. Don’t run through it.”
“No it isn’t! I’ll prove it!”
Guess who’s in the hospital.

You know what? That cute little grandchick of yours will be peering out at the world from inside a burka if you don’t pay attention to people who say they want you to be like them or they’ll dispatch your infidel soul.

Were you the kids in the schoolyard who never hit back because you were afraid of getting beat up if you showed that you noticed the bully was slapping you around? Lemme tell you something. You hit back once, they go away. That’s the game. You don’t hit back, they keep slapping you around because you refuse to learn the rules.

Deep in your unindoctrinated brain, you know full well that we’re such pigs that all of us together are poisoning the planet, whether it’s in a motor boat out on the lake, or in an airplane, flying to an environmentally friendly vacation on a non-polluting sailboat in the Mediterranean. Pigs, baby, we’re pigs. Aren’t you a pig? I am, in a thousand ways. We were born like that. Being piggish is a survival instinct. Grow. Make yourself more. Your chances will be better.

Speaking of making yourself more, the big man, Mr. Gore, may be as wrong as I think he is, but this piggishness is still a problem. The Earth seems to be going through its natural paces. But Earth is doing it with the cancer called man metastasizing to every nook and cranny of the globe. It's everywhere, and the most threatening growth is not, at the moment, in the United States.

Fat Al or not, this is something we can’t close our eyes to. Unless we’re in China, where we have to. Both because it’s politically incorrect not to, and because if you don’t, you eyes will burn like hell from the pollution.

Oops! Come back here, you Libs, you careless, wanton lovers of humanity. You’re about to go to bed with someone who’s threatening to kill off everything you know and love. All you apologists for the Prince of Persia. Even he’s getting sick of you, by the way. He’s been slapping you around for years, and you keep finding another cheek to turn. He is amazed. He’s running out of latex gloves – he doesn’t want to touch you, he thinks you’re dirty. In fact, you homo-huggers, he thinks you’re about the worst segment of humanity on earth. Except for the one in Israel. It’s your acceptance of sodomy, of whoredom, of bastardry, of pornography, your disregard for the word of God, that makes you public enemy number one – the first ones who will be taken out and shot in Yankee Stadium if you don’t stop pretending this man doesn’t mean what he says, and doesn’t speak for the entire radical Islamist world when he says it.

So why don’t you red and blue teams send yourself to the cold showers, and wake up. When someone tells you to be afraid, don’t look at him, look at what he’s telling you to be afraid of, and judge for your own goddam self. Don’t dismiss it as a fear tactic. Fear tactics are hard to distinguish from genuine fears, and the way to tell them apart is not by looking at the color of the shouter’s shirt.

Fantasyland

Well, folks, I’m a dreamer. You wouldn’t think it, would you? You’ve got me down as some hard-core conservative, deeply rooted in the dog-eat-dog mentality of big business and corporate greed. A carnivore with big teeth. But you’re wrong. It’s true, I don’t indulge in wishful thinking, but when it comes to “wishing,” I’m as bad as you Libs. Worse. I tend to detail my dreams. You leave your wishes vague, so you can twist and turn them for your thinking.

But enough about us – you and me. I want to talk about something I think we’d all like.

Remember Ron Paul? The man who made so much sense we all stopped talking and listened when it was his turn in the debates? Every time he opened his mouth he gave us a lesson in how it really is, and why it is that way, and what we have to do get rid of it. He talked economics. He talked war. He talked Constitution. He became very popular. People of both parties loved him. They loved the way he spoke to them. He treated them like intelligent beings who could understand their world if they were given the facts. He gave them the facts. Contributions poured in. Many millions on some days. The media had to treat him like a candidate. And so they asked if there was any Republican he could run with. Dr. Paul looked startled that he’d even been asked the question because, “There’s the war!” he said reprovingly. However, when asked if there was any Democrat he could run with, he said, as if of course we all know, “Well, there’s Dennis. Dennis and I are friends.”

Do you remember Dennis Kucinich? About as well as you remember Ron Paul. The media decided we’d had our fun. They got rid of these two principled people. Principled people could cramp their style. Who wants to listen to them? They were ruled out of the debates. And out of our minds. But not out of our hearts, and I know you feel good, right now, thinking about these two imps who disagree on almost everything, (the war is the exception) and are nevertheless friends, because below all their disagreements there is something that unites them. The Constitution they’ve pledged an oath to uphold.

And they’re good men. Concerned more with the plight of mankind than with the next election. And not at all with the care and feeding of fat cats. And these two men stick to their guns. They don’t put them back in their holsters at the sight of a bowl of Tender Treats.

The media tried to stamp out Ron Paul like a fire. But he’s alive and burning, and bringing his show to the Republican convention. Well, not exactly. His three day gala is down the block. What does this mean, folks? He’s having his own party. Has he deserted his? Could this party become a Party? A Political Party? Don’t we wish. He’s said he won’t do that. Well then why is he having his own bash? He calls it the Rally for the Republic. It’s happening right around the corner. Everybody’s invited, and it looks like everybody’s coming. By rail, by van, by bus ... even a contingent walking 280 miles, from Madison. It’s a movement! The activities will culminate in a big arena event with rock stars, political stars and a Sinatra impersonator (probably to sing “My Way.”) Tickets are “17.76”.

The Rally for the Republic is the kick-off of the Campaign for Liberty. Remember all that money Dr.Paul collected? This is where it’s going. To inject some new, old ideas into our national psyche: Individual liberty. Constitutional government. Sound money. Free markets. Non-interventionist foreign policy.

Maybe you don’t like one or two of these things. (I’ll bet you can guess which one I don’t like.) But basically, wouldn’t you stand behind Ron Paul? When asked about marijuana, the good doctor said (and I paraphrase) it’s a freedom issue – if you’re not hurting anybody else, it’s not their business; you’d think they’d have learned their lesson from prohibition. We don’t need a federal bureaucracy to keep people from doing dangerous things. Their parents teach them that. The world is full of dangers. It’s not the fed’s business to override state laws.

So here’s my dream, people. Everybody gets on the Ron Paul bandwagon as it passes through town. He’s already had to move his event to a bigger venue. Let’s make it impossible to hold all of us. Let everybody show. And let them go to the convention. And change the electors’ minds. And nominate Ron Paul who picks Dennis Kucinich as his Vice.

Sweet dreams are made of these.

http://www.campaignforliberty.com/

Brown-eyed Handsome Man

Well, goddam if I haven’t finally got the goods on Obama. You people out there have been wondering about the mystery man, wondering why he is the mystery man, wondering why you can’t get a handle on much of what he thinks, considering he’s been in the thinking game for so long. That’s what I now know and am about to tell you.

But I don’t take credit for it. No, none at all. I have to thank an old friend of yours for spilling the beans. A lady, too. As you know, I’m not big on old girls. But I do plug into the Gray Lady, or as they say in Woodstock, the New York Fucking Times, on a regular basis. She doesn’t come to the house – I wouldn’t have her – but we’ve got an arrangement. I’ve invited her to sleep in my Inbox, and when I want her, I just punch her up.

I punched her up yesterday. We had our usual lovely time; she’s quite giving. And here’s what she gave me. Not news, but olds. Olds about Obama.

Barack the Law Professor. Well, not exactly a professor. A lecturer. But what a lecturer. Such a lecturer that they offered him tenure upon hiring if he’d only join the permanent faculty. He wouldn’t. He had bigger things in mind than moldering away in the groves of academe.

And now Ladies and Gentlemen, I want you to hark back more than a year. Can you do it? Can you reach back into the past to when we heard that when Barack was in Kindergarten he said he wanted to be President? People didn’t take too kindly to that. Why not? It sounds admirable. I’ll tell you why not. It creeped them out, that’s why.

Barack the orator didn’t publish when he was at the University. People usually do. He was there for 12 years. My demographic will be happy to hear that he didn’t make any friends among the faculty – a conservative faculty – and here’s more. He didn’t mix it up with them either. He didn’t go to the informal debates; he didn’t put forth his views; nobody knew what they were.

Do you? Really? You thought you did, a while back … not in detail, but who wants details? Well, after a while, you did. So he had his staff write up a bunch of details. So many, you couldn’t even read them. You were satisfied that they were there. Then your man started slipping around, shedding his skins, leaving them behind. And now, you don’t know who the hell he is, do you?

Well, that, folks, is apparently the object and has been all along. He didn’t publish because he’s smart. He’s seen people go down for papers they wrote, and he’s not about to put his Hancock on anything embarrassing. The guy won’t commit himself – even in a Senate vote, whether it’s Illinois or Washington. You can’t call him on anything.

He wowed his students. He was a rock star. More and more people signed up for his classes. And he used those classes, the gray lady whispered in my ear, to develop his political mind. He provoked argument. He made people take a side. But he never did. They didn’t know where he stood. Except on some issues. “His most original course was on racism and law,” my gray lady let drop deliciously into my consciousness.

I stood at attention. I thought Obama wasn’t interested in race. I thought he was beyond race. Why shouldn’t he be? As he said in class, “Take Barack Obama, there’s a good-looking guy.” Good looking in everybody’s eyes, no matter what color, race, religion, or combination thereof they sport. Let’s face it, folks, Barack Obama looks like a grown-up little boy. He’s cute. He’s sweet. He has small, dainty, universal features, like a doll. Barack Obama is no indication that America is ready to have a black man as President. It shows that America loves a model human being who was fortunate enough to get a tan that he never loses.

The only guess his students would make was that he was interested in continuing the cure for racism in America. Well, good for him, I’m all for it, but they also say he’s “willing to look past legal niceties to get results.” Whoa! Maybe you Libs like that, I don’t. I’m a law and order guy. Even if I feel the end justifies the means, I won’t act on it, because that’s getting into the handbasket. So this bothers me.

And why? Because I think Barack has a big agenda. He would not let two Muslims in head scarves sit behind him in a televised speech, and when he apologized he said “We have a very narrow message.”

Hear that, y’all? It’s purposeful. He doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t want you to know anything. He wants to surprise you, after he’s tucked safely into the White House. Have you noticed that you come away from his speeches with only a great feeling? It’s because that's all he gives you. Barack Obama is a clever cookie. He knows that anything he says can get him into trouble. In fact, if you have to say anything, it’s better to contradict it as soon as you reasonably can. Then people can pick whichever one they want. And they will, because they want Barack. They want the brown-eyed handsome man. And they’re going to get him.

I hope you like surprises.