Housecleaner Wanted, Bring Own Fire and Brimstone

And lo! In the East, it came to be that Sodom and Gomorrah that had been so destroyed arose in Cambridge and New Haven. There, the sins of socialism and environmentalism and elitism were practiced openly and to the exclusion of all other religions.

And spew forth their evil did they, with presidents and czars and advisors and ambassadors and secretaries and First Ladies, and they did flaunt their sinfulness wherever they went. They rent the fabric that is America and spat upon it. They defiled and corrupted all that they came in contact with.

In these once-godly lands racism was not only practiced but taught. The evil prophets Saul Alinsky, Che Guevarra, Fidel Castro, Mao Tse-tung, Vladimir Lenin, Karl Marx, Jimmy Carter were revered. All others were silenced. The righteous were silenced or forced to flee.

And God looked upon Harvard and Yale and said, These are dens of iniquity that are unholy in My sight. I will destroy them utterly. They take children and corrupt them. They turn them against their parents, against their country, and against their god. I will rain down upon them fire and brimstone and kill all who have been touched by them.

But the Angel of Mercy asked God if there were not any righteous souls at all. And God replied, You are right. There is one.

And lo, a messenger went to the Twin Loci of Evil and appeared at the Cambridge Police Department. Come with me quickly, the angel said, and do not look back, lest you be turned into a bottle of beer.

And when the angel set him down at a safe distance from the conflagration, God did unleash a storm from hell. He cut off all government insured student loans, all government grants, and all government contracts. And all their alumni were forbidden to ever serve in government service for all time.

And there was much weeping and wailing within the blackened walls of Harvard and Yale.

But much rejoicing everywhere else.

Oz Alert: The Cowardly Liar

AWOL: Our Coward in Chief.

The great Tea Party movement, the largest outpouring of the passion that is at the heart of America that I have EVER seen in my long lifetime, has moved to Washington, D.C.—and where is our—you should excuse the expression— fearless "leader"?

He has scurried like a cockroach off to a hand-picked group of sycophants in Minneapolis. He wants to avoid the heat and the light, like any other dirt-dwelling critter. Has it not become too apparent that we have elected—a coward?

The Bamster is proving time and again that he can’t take the heat of an argument, and he can’t deflect or throw a punch. He’s a strutting, preening “tough guy” who’s hoping, praying that no one challenges him. And if they do, he’ll gather his skirts and run off to safety.

He's the schoolyard bully/coward—talking tough to his supporters, afraid to face his enemies. He's the "courageous" general who shows his bravery by loudly boasting in the plush salons that are comfortably far from the conflict.

Obama is a disgraceful half-man, turning his fighting over to his minions. Like the Wicked Witch of the West, he dispatches his flying monkeys—those foul, beshitting creatures of the left. But the Wicked Witch of the West was more of a man than Obama. She had the courage to face her enemies head on. Poor little Obama hides behind his teleprompters until his enemies (he hopes) have been defeated.

Liar and coward. Barack Hussein Obama. America’s shameful moment of weakness.

You must—and WILL—go. And your flying monkeys too!

Joel Chandler Harrass

Mistuh Whitey gotta call one day ta see what was happ’in’ in Ole Cambridge Town. An he an two uddah guys gots outta dair cah.

An heauh was Ole Mistuh Jungle Bunny, wit one a his buds was usin’ a crowbah ta done breaks open dah front door a Mistuh Bunny’s house, cause dat dum perfessuh done locked hisself outts his house.

An Mistuh Whitey, he say, “Hey der, youn’se guys. Stop whatcha doin’ cause I tink yer doin' somepin wrong.”

An den Ole Mistuh Jungle Bunny, he say, “Who you’s callin ‘Nigguh,' Whitey?”

An Mistuh Whitey he say, “I's not callin' you nigguh, Suh, I jes wanna fine out what's goin' on heauh.”

But Ole Jungle Bunny, he scream, “Nigguh, nigguh. You’se heauh cause you tinks ah’m a nigguh, and--O, Lawd a Mercy!!-- you’s gonna beat me silly wit' dat big stick a yern, ain't ya?”

“Suh, Suh, dat ain’t so. Don’ carries on so’s. I ain’t callin’ you nuttin’. I's not gonna beats ya. I’s jess tryin’ ta figguh out wat all's goin’ on heauh.”

“Der ya’s goes agin, callin' me an dis fine man agin ‘Nigguh,’ a mighty disparagin' term. An I knows you's prob'ly tinkin’ dat dis ting heauh dat I is a holdin' is a ‘Jim Crowe' bah, ain’t ya? You's a mighty wicked racist nigguh hatuh.”

“Suh, y’all are bein’ mighty unpleasant to sum'mon who jess done risked his life ta help perteck dis heauh pro’pty.”

“Dis MINE pro’pty, stupid Whitey, and you’s abusin’ me mighty!” Ole Jungle Bunny scream.

“An,” he continues, “I wants ya ta know, I is frens wit da Pres’dent, da black boy Obama, an' he's a gonna tells you an' da whol' worl' dat you is mudduh-fuckin’ stupid, cuz he’s our’n boy.”

An' Mistuh Whitey was mighty dist'rbed ta fine out dat he wuz bein' called sumpin' he'd nevuh been called befoe: A nigguh hatuh! Why, he'd ain't nevuh done hated no blacks man, EVUH!, let alone uttered da hateful word "nigguh." But 'parently, times dey'd dun changed in d'Obama times. An Whitey hadn't dun kep' up wit da times.

“Whitey, whitey, whitey!” screamed Ole Mistuh Jungle Bunny, “I knows you'uz callin’ me a nigguh, and you’s gonna’ pay fer dis. Y’all don’ know who’s I am, duz ya? Well, lets me tell you. I am da Supreme Jungle Bunny a Harvard, where dey likes my kine, cuz dey’s so guilty. Ha ha, Mistuh Whitey, you done stepped in it dis time, din ya?”

And den da reportuhs from da mainstream media sez, “Well, Harvard can’t poss'bly be no racist place wit' a racist perfessuh,” and so dey begans t'attack Mistuh Whitey fer bein' insens'tive to Ole Mistuh Jungle Bunny, an ole Bunny he jest grinned an' grinned an' grinned.

An' den Bunny he sez, “Whitey, dis heauh nigguh goin' ta make a fortune frum dis heah shoutin' match, an dat’ll teach you’s all ta call me 'Nigguh.'”

And den Ole Mistuh Bunny he jess laff an' laff un'er his breff--"Dem stupid libr'l whities," he sez t'hisself, "dey falls fer dis ev'ry time." An he laff some more. An' he dranks some beer wit da Pres'dent.

Slip of Fools

Years ago, Solomon read a fascinating short story, the name of which eludes me, I’m sorry to say, about a happily married woman whose husband, who loves her dearly, becomes aware that she smells awful. He is totally embarrassed and ashamed by this, but he can’t escape the knowledge that his wife reeks. The wife is, of course, devastated, but soon, the husband can’t smell his wife anymore. It’s not that she no longer stinks; it is that she has absolutely no smell.

The same situation happens with the sound of her voice and the feel of her skin—they become repulsive and then—nothing. Now, the ending of the story reveals what is going on. The wife is a monster who wants to live among regular human beings but can only do so by using the monsters’ supernatural power of distorting the senses of human beings so that reagular people don’t see, hear, smell, feel, or taste what is really there.

This reality-blocking by the monsters works on a short-term basis, but the wife finds out that keeping the illusion going all the time ceases to be possible, so that the husband’s senses have to be destroyed. So, in trying to keep the husband’s love, she becomes totally lost to him, for he cannot love that which she actually is and she can no longer sustain her illusions that she has imposed on his senses.

Now, I’ll bet you are wondering where this is going. Telling the plot of a story that doesn’t make some point is akin to recounting the story of a dream you’ve had—it’s a practice not to be endured.

Well, Solomon does have a reason for recounting this story, for last night we saw the slipping of the mask string from off President Obama’s prodigious monkey ears. One word slipped out from behind the carefully crafted and guarded illusion that is this strange non-man, and that word reverberated as none before has. The word he said was “stupidly.”

The reference was to his opinion of the behavior of a white policeman toward a black professor—even though Obama said he didn’t know any of the facts of the case! Yet, according to Obama, letting free a deeply suppressed personal truth, the white cop was stupid, racist, and clearly wrong, and the black was clearly innocent and a victim of police brutality and racial profiling.

That one word--stupidly--so powerfully revealed Obama’s racist view of whites that his handlers had to tell the American people through his spokesman Robert Gibbs that what they had heard was not what they had heard. Their contention: He did not say that.

Amazing!

Now you can see the relation between what the President did and the story. We are living with an incredibly vile monster masquerading as one of us, but he can’t keep the illusion of his otherness hidden forever. The mask will slip, and each time it will reveal something uglier and uglier, and so the American people will have to have their senses eliminated by the useful idiots of the sycophantic White House Press Corps, who are committed to maintaining the illusion at all costs—even at the cost of their own careers and reputations.

Obama does not speak for himself. There is a cabal of Jews pulling his strings (the veracity for this assertion comes from no less an authoritative expert on Obama than the Reverend (cough, cough) Jeremiah Wright!) who, literally, dictate every word that comes out of his mouth. These people dare not let the Monkey God speak for himself, for he is unable to couch the hateful ideology in words that sound soft, nonthreatening, and silkily sensible. Obama can't speak as well as the whites can, so they pen his every word. Do you wonder what Obama must feel knowing that his every thought is coming from white guys, Jewish white guys? Think he might be harboring a little . . . I don't know . . .HOSTILITY!!!???

Well, the truth of Obama’s and his fellow travelers' ideology is that it is an abomination, a stinking, rotten assault on liberty and goodness, no less an anathema that Nazism, which it so closely resembles.

But the slick words that roll across the teleprompters’ glass faces belie the speaker’s (and his handlers') true intents and views. Obama is not capable of scripting these words, just reading them. And if the teleprompter goes out, if for a moment the Bamster must speak his own words, the mask he continually must wear slips dramatically, as it did at his fiasco of a health care press conference.

And the full ugly comes out, like what would happen if Medusa adjusts her bathing cap--"Oh My God! What's tha..." Obama--the white-hating racist, the cop-hating community activist, the truth-hating communist--the REAL Obama, came rearing out with a speed and venom that made even the press corps recoil in horror. Is that a "stony" silence I hear?

“Could that really be OUR Bamster who just said that?” they had to be asking themselves. David Axelrod, the Bamster’s Edgar Bergen, must have been behind the screen slapping his vast and increasing forehead while silently screaming, “Dear God, NOOOOoooooooo!”

But there it was for all to see and hear. And the next day, unexpectedly, Democratic leaders said they were--ahem--postponing, delaying any further health care votes. Hmmmm. Do you think they recognized that perhaps their Monkey God had been too obviously, and perhaps irretrievably, revealed as the Manchurian Candidate? Were the rats suddenly taking a few strong frantic backstrokes away from what might be a sinking ship?

The kindly Monkey God suddenly had shown himself to have an ugly appetite for hatred and evil. The stench of rotten teeth and putrefying entrails burst forth and filled the room and could not be disguised.

Humpty Dumpty fooled us all,
By looking stern and standing tall,
And speaking words not his at all.

But Humpty Dumpty squeezed his heart,
And stinkingly, like long-held fart,
Out “Stupidly” he hurled. Not smart.

Obama and his peeps should know that people can’t be made to fall in love twice with the same person. And you cannot forgive those whom you do not love. That slip of the mask is going to cost him, well, I hope, everything.

Beggars Beware

Charity invariably ends up reinforcing the axiom, “No good deed will go unpunished.”

Charity is doing for others what they should have done for themselves but were too lazy to do so.

Charity is false compassion. Real compassion helps people in need; charity (false compassion) helps people stay in need. Poverty is not a shame—it’s a disgrace. Any man who allows his children to wallow in the indignities of poverty is no man at all. He is a selfish boy with an itch and sperm.

Anyone who gives money to help people who cannot/will not control their lives is contributing to continuing the pain that is caused by this lack of control. True charity means taking the children away from the poor and doing something useful and productive with them. Then, take the people who produced the child and failed to take adequate care of him/her and confine them to hard labor, deprivation, and torment.

Human beings who are starving are a disgrace to reason. There is only one thing that separates us from the lower orders and that is reason. Therefore, human beings who fail to uphold their mandate to be noble need to be disposed of.

They are an affront to all that our Creator meant for us, and our Creator would surely applaud our use of reason to rid the world of those who were a pollution.

Make no mistake—the poor are pollution of the worst kind, unless they are made poor by powers of the reasonable. If the playing field is reasonably level, then poverty is a choice, not an imposition nor an inevitability.

Having less than another is not poverty. Having less than is needed IS poverty. If opportunities abound for one to have enough of what is needed for survival, then poverty is to be punished, not pitied.

Ridding the world of those who refuse to work hard enough and smart enough to keep them and their offspring out of poverty, is incumbent upon those of us who do what is necessary to prevent this slip into the slime.

Reason comes with a price; poverty comes with an excuse.

Quite frankly, the way things are going now must be ended. The poor are not paying the price that their poverty exacts upon society. They, not the rich, should be taxed and beaten into economic oblivion. The poor are a blot upon the Creator’s creation.

If arrogance results from achievement, and that arrogance results in a willful, deliberate state of inflexible social position, then of course reason is to be held in contempt. But, make not mistake, it is the individual who should be held in contempt, not reason itself.

The possession of reason does not preclude the desire for arrogant dominance. As a matter of fact, reason allows us to see that dominance without merit is possible, if force (be it physical or legal) is brought to bear.

Those were the French aristocrats who were summarily executed by the very Age of Reason they propagated. The ironies of the French Revolution are such that the arrogant of our own age should be wary of surviving on and trading on their own arrogance.

Enforced poverty is a condition that excuses violence to overthrow the “haves.” But poverty that exists in a social milieu that allows ascensions and declines by merit is just willful negligence and dereliction by the parties involved.

The poor, in that situation, sould be punished for being poor. Charity merely rewards them for being losers.

So let us not let our reason and our judgment be clouded by our emotions. The truly inferior should be treated with disdain, when the inferior are blessed with reason. This is why animals must be protected by those of us with reason. But we should spit on those with reason who refuse to use it.

Animals, in that regard, are morally superior to human beings who choose to be losers. Human beings who are poor should be eliminated from the human scene, not fed and nourished and allowed to continue.

Compassion must be limited to those who are truly helpless or are truly inferior. I’ve no time for false charity that encourages the able-bodied and able-minded among us.

Important Note: When I say "eliminated" and such, I am NOT advocating killing those people. However, I do not have a problem with rounding them up and restricting their freedoms.

Lord Jesus, I Am Comin' Home at Last! And with Big Bucks in My Pocket!

Reparations—that bugaboo that raises its rambunctious head every few years. Political perceptions of blacks by themselves and by non-blacks wax and wane in favor of and against this chimera as the zeitgeist dictates--sometimes it looks like the morally expedient thing to do, then it morphs into something morally repugnant, and soon it is seen as a thing that is morally unconscionable in either the affirmative or the negative, and in a tight election race, it is a thing that is morally incumbent.

Reparations for slavery are filaments of political exhalations that ebb and flow and blow in the wind like wispy grasses. Yet regardless of how these winds blow, reparations are a monster for those who would fight them, for those who would defend them, and for those who would ride them.

Now, as any student of monster literature knows (and monsters have been the mother's milk of literature since before writing appeared), monsters are not easily dispatched and are certainly not put out of commission by being fed and coddled.

Like all frightful monsters, this one must be dealt with in a once-and-for-all manner, or, as any reader of literature and/or watcher of monster movies can readily attest, the villagers will never have peace.

Thus it is with reparations. So Solomon is here neither to condemn nor to embrace reparations but rather to provide a means for everyone to escape the talons of the beast. For ever.

Granting monetary reparations for slavery to people who never were themselves slaves does seem bizarre and unwarranted. Paying monetary reparations does no good to assuage whatever guilt a situation contains if the money is given to people who experienced no wrong. All this would do is to enflame greed on the part of receivers and resentment on the part of payers, who did no wrong either.

Will we all agree that there are no people living who were slaves or who were slave owners? Good. Then all aggrieved parties and all guilty parties have gone to a state where our reparations will neither hurt nor assuage.

My family did not own slaves and were actually against the peculiar institution, so my paying makes no sense, but if I were forced to pay, what's to prevent future generations of blacks to keep coming back to the trough that is my family's income time and again? If I paid current black people, none of whom I have wronged and none of whom were ever wronged personally, the monster, in short, would still exist. Why should blacks at the beginning of the 21st Century be entitled to money when those who came before weren’t and those who come after won’t? Makes no sense. If this whitey pays, then why shouldn't my children, and their children, etc. pay constantly too?

No, one-time payments will never do. Repeated payments will never do. Unless…

Yes, there must be a condition that ends everything. And here it is: Every black American who can prove that his ancestors were slaves in America before 1865 is entitled to one reparation payment—with condition. The payment would be $100,000; the threefold condition is that he or she will board a plane, with a one-way ticket, for Africa; that his/her American citizenship be irrevocably surrendered; and that he or she be forbidden to return--ever--to American soil.

Any black who refuses to accept this condition forfeits the chance to ever get reparations ever again for himself or any of his descendants. Future generations who are resentful that they are still living in America because some ancestor chose not to take the deal are out of luck. I guess they are cursed to be Americans for the rest of their lives, or at least without any financial incentive to give up that onerous burden.

Every black American living as of a particular date (to be determined) who can prove that his ancestors were indeed enslaved will have a one-week window to make the final decision. Those eighteen and older will decide for themselves. Those under eighteen, alas, must abide by their fathers’ decision. If no father can be found for a black child (most unlikely, of course), then the default position will be that the child would want to get the money and go back to Africa and will be sent to Africa with a US check for 100k, making his/her adoption extremely likely.

So there it is, a take-it-or-leave-it deal that compensates all aggrieved black parties if they so choose and that will be a stake in the heart of the Reparations Monster for all time for those who must pay. Everyone should be, if not jubilantly happy, somewhat mollified. Slave descendants can start a new and, one hopes, prosperous life in the continent from which their ancestors were ripped, and slave descendants who choose to stay will be announcing that they are committed to being Americans without any grievance against white people that must be remunerated. Harmony will prevail in all corners of the world! Praise Jesus!

Except, Solomon suspects, there will probably be those who take the deal and find out that there are worse places than America in which to live. Oh, how full of rue are those who choose to sell themselves for transient indulgence.

The story of Africa, I believe.

The Secret Service of San Bernardino

We recently had a senseless murder in the park up the street from me where I take my dogs every day to run. When it happened, fifteen city police cars showed up, all frantic to lock the barn door now that the horse had run away. Note I say "cars" showed up, not policemen. For "cars" is all we know of our police here, and I think many of you probably have a similar situation in your communities.

Well, Solomon got his dander up and began a letter to his Councilman with a lengthy run-down of the problem and a common-sense approach to making things better. Now, Solomon realizes that changing the direction and nature of a government entity is tantamount to changing the course of a glacier with a hair dryer, so he has little hope that anything other than a fire bombing of my home by the union will occur. However, I strongly believe that the police as currently constituted in most places in this country are really rotten and despicable.

So, friends, please feel free to use this tome in your own approach to your own police department. Friendly plagiarism is the sincerest form of flattery for a blogger.

Dear Councilman—At our Fourth of July picnic, the subject came up of the San Bernardino Police Force, and the resulting conversation gave a very unflattering (and unanimous) view of this organization. When so many respectable people have such a negative perception of such an important civic branch, I think the powers that be must sit up and pay close attention. Not only should the police be informed of the low esteem in which they’re held; they should be required to demonstrably make changes in the way they do business.

The perception of the SBPD is that they are an arrogant, anonymous, invisible, and ineffective (possibly corrupt) cadre of men and women who only pay lip service to their commitment to the safety of San Bernardino. Their only real commitment seems to be ensuring that they can retire early with a full pension and receive an additional disability benefit. Their union’s constant whining about contract issues and the union’s infantile response to every demand put on them show that this group of men and women has no allegiance to this city. Every time the union gets its feelings hurt, policemen begin sending out flurries of applications for new jobs. One has only to recall that airplane banner being flaunted over the Route 66 festivities last fall to get the real picture of SBPD. It’s all about THEM.

Councilman, I want you to know that I fully share in this negative view of the SBPD, and I am not some drug-dealing malcontent who’s got a bone to pick over some perceived slight. The police have never “picked” on me, stopped me, ticketed me, or in any way personally offended me. However, I feel the police in this city are particularly ineffective in those areas that are most important (explained below) and are, by their present operating methods, actually encouraging a lawless, out-of-control city.

First, let’s address the issue of “anonymity.” The fact that I have never, in my twenty-two year residency here, known a single policeman galls me. At the party, I found out that I am not alone in not knowing the name of a single policeman. No one at our party knew one policeman. Further, if the police were questioned about me, not one of them could say who I was or would know anything about me. Why, the SBPD might as well be Secret Service operatives the way they keep from having anyone know them.

Now, when a person goes to a school, medical office, restaurant, auto dealer/repair, bar, veterinarian office, post office, barbershop, etc,--in other words, when we interact with any place that provides us services large and small—we want to be recognized. Recognition is a sign of respect on the part of the service provider. Nonrecognition is a sign of arrogant disrespect or, at best, lack of concern.

The police are removed from those they serve, and they do everything to keep it that way. They are NEVER out of their precious cars; when they drive by (always at high speeds), the windows are always up; when they have occasion to get out of their cars, they talk only to each other and only the necessary witnesses, but they never go beyond themselves or just the job. In short, they avoid the law-abiding citizens at all costs. And this is because their whole mind-set is to chase perpetrators, not to patrol streets to make a presence that prevents crime.

Areas that are patrolled regularly by police are almost entirely crime free, so failing to patrol regularly is a statement to the public that the police care more about actually having crime than in having a peaceful city. Crime is their adrenaline rush; peace is boring and routine. Well, we want to live in a peaceful city that operates in a routine and perhaps boring way. But that’s not what we have.

To solve this really bad situation, the police need to stop spouting “community policing” and actually start policing the community. They can do this by actually patrolling every area of the city regularly and religiously. The city should be divided into ten precincts with six officers assigned for three years to a particular precinct. No able-bodied officer will be sitting in the office. They’ll be on the streets, getting out of their cars, talking amiably to people in their areas, driving slowly with windows down, getting to know who’s who and what’s what.

It is no laughing matter that ice cream vendors know more about areas and people of San Bernardino than do the police! That there is never a presence in areas until a crime is committed (think about the recent murder in Blair Park, for example) actually encourages crimes to occur! Do you think that the Blair Park murder would have happened as it did if everybody involved knew that the police came by periodically?

But they don’t come by anywhere periodically. The only time they come by is when they’re headed to something that interests them more than the lives of ordinary San Bernardino residents.

Now, if the police don’t like being part of full-time patrol and want more excitement, by all means let them leave and let’s not plead with them to stay. There are too many qualified men and women who can do this kind of police work whom we can hire. We don’t need any policeman who fancies himself some elite member of a band-of-brothers, thinks of himself as a hot-shot, or sees himself as Dirty Harry-in-Berdoo.

Second, to end the anonymity of police, the officers assigned to an area should be well known to the citizenry by means of periodic fliers with their pictures, access numbers, and bios. These fliers should be delivered door-to-door, by the actual police, every six months to every residence and business within their purview.

Third, having police who are associated with and connected to particular areas will act as a crime deterrent by allowing and encouraging the police to use their competitive spirit to see that their particular areas is the most peaceful. People who go into law enforcement are, by their very natures, highly competitive individuals—but their most satisfying glory should not come from using guns and force and high-risk chases but rather in how few crimes are actually committed on their watch.

I’m afraid that the police will give every excuse they can conjure to avoid going this route [“We know more about crime that you citizens do.” “You don’t understand the nature of the jobs we do.” “We’re required to do paper work.” “We have to respond to emergencies.” “This isn’t the way it’s been done in this city. It won’t work in San Bernardino.” “You people don’t appreciate what we do for you.” “We lay our lives on the line every day for this city.” The excuses will be impassioned and legion, but they will be just that—excuses. Certainly, we do appreciate it that they catch criminals when they have to and we do appreciate the bravery they must exhibit in the face of dangerous situations, but these things don’t have anything to do with 95% of the citizens of San Bernardino.]

What they are doing isn’t working well in preventing crime, and what they’re doing certainly isn’t going down well with the majority of the respectable people in this community. No one knows or likes the police, and isn’t that a terrible situation?! Perhaps they are doing a respectable job after crimes have been committed (and there is some doubt here, as well), but the SBPD have a terrible PR problem.

Now, Councilman, I think it’s the city’s elected leaders that must force change upon the police department and make them start answering some hard questions. I believe a place to get started is to have a survey given to the people concerning attitudes toward their police. I believe that the results will startle everyone into a rude awakening.

Then, I believe a citizens’ commission should be formed and empowered to force changes upon the police to provide a more responsive and a more effective organization and to provide a safer city—but that does not mean having the police go on more crime pursuits. It means having them become a quotidian presence in everyone’s lives. One can go days, weeks, without ever seeing a policeman (actually, a police car); this should change to the point that everyone should see a policeman every day, perhaps several times a day, near his/her home/business.

The police and the people of the city must share the same vision of the mission of the police department, but as it is now, the police have one view (catching wrong-doers) and the public another (feeling secure in their daily lives). It seems as if the police believe that fear of policemen will stop crime, but I’m afraid it is a contemptuous fear, engendered and inflamed by such things as seeing police sitting at the Sons of the Golden West Parlor to play “gotcha” with people making right turns on red, not promoting safety but helping the city extort money from its citizens. When a policeman goes up to talk to a group of young people, you can bet they feel (probably correctly) that they’re about to be hassled and suspected of plotting wrong-doing.

The teachers with the best-controlled classes are not those who are the most intimidating, not the loudest, not the most threatening. They are ones who are calm, consistent, and constantly in contact with their students. Friendly, approachable, but ultimately in perfect control. That’s what police can and should be.

Common Sense: We treat strangers much worse than we treat acquaintances. Our police force are strangers to us all, as are we to them. This situation can and should be changed.

Sincerely,
Solomon Slade

When Fourth Place Isn't Bad Enough

Well, this past week Chastity Bono changed her sex. From what to what, Solomon does not know, but apparently she is going to go under the knife to be a man. The results, I am sorry to tell her, will not fool anyone. Better to be a manly lesbian with all her parts than to be a manly lesbian with parts unrecognizable.

But it is not Chastity, who seems to be (or at least before her decision to mutilate her body) a nice enough person, about whom I want to speak. No, I wish to speak of another identity change that really shows how disgusting self-mutilation really is.

It is the News Media that has gone through a sex change—from manly, aggressive pursuers of truth to unmanly, vindictive pursuers of an agenda. And that agenda is being pursued with a vicious zealousness that can only be understood if one equates them to Islamic terrorists. And like Islamic terrorists, the media is pursuing an agenda that they perceive as religious and holy.

What has happened to this once virile profession? There have always been women in journalism, but the profession wasn’t politically correct and whiney and dripping with estrogen “Feelings.” Oh, those “feelings,” those easily hurt and sensitive and intuitive and contemptible “feelings.” When and why did this replace “Logic,” “Intelligence,” “Patriotism,” “Common Sense,” and “Toughness”?

All the male parts of journalism began to be snipped off with Watergate. Woodward and Bernstein, those hankie-clutching vermin, found that by relentlessly pursuing Nixon they could become darlings of the Inside-the-Beltway types who can slice and dice with their eyebrows and nasally-intoned words.

They wanted to buy good opinion for themselves, and they could and DID this by assassinating Richard Nixon—a man whom Solomon did not like but who was treated incredibly badly by the scum like W&B. Now, Solomon knows words and uses them judiciously, maliciously, and correctly. Nixon’s was the first assassination of an American president by journalists. And as every murderer will tell you, “Murder is the ultimate high.”

And so began every copycat journalist to reach the rush that W&B got—assassinate, and don’t worry about facts, fairness, or results. Intimidate and make them kiss your ass or you will destroy, by omission or by commission. Words used properly and without morality can destroy people, careers, reputations, political parties. We, in the post-Watergate era, the journalists, are gods.

Ah, but it wasn’t enough to simply go frothing with blood in their mouths after their enemies—aka anyone with balls and a spine. No, it was not enough to destroy good people and moral conduct. They needed something more for power.

To achieve full power and control, they needed to prove that they were able to shove down the throats of America, that vile cesspool of freedom and achievement, the most repulsive slimebag who ever slid out of a birth canal—Barack Obama. Shove black in America’s face (they’re all racists, aren’t they?; shove stupid in America’s face (they really can’t really call a black intellectually inferior, can they?); shove a venom-spewing black bitch as their First Lady and call the fashion-challenged mean one a fashion icon; shove down America’s throat a guy who can’t speak or think as the greatest orator and thinker in their history; shove down America’s throat a humorless, ruthless, cold-blooded, compassionless coward as the wit and wisdom and pater famalias of the nation; shove down America’s throat the most vile Marxist/Fascist since Stalin/Hitler and let him sit where Lincoln and Reagan sat. Humiliate America. Debase her. Shove her face in filth. Then, oh then, journalists will have proven that they can do anything!

They created their God in their own image! And they will worship him. And the American people will have no other god before them. And journalism and journalists will do nothing but support him and allow nothing be said or seen that will show the out-and-out Evil of this Antichrist.

The Fourth Estate has become the Fifth Column!

Universities and colleges pulled in aspiring journalists, and winnowed out those who thought you had to be a good objective writer. No, to be in journalism you had to be a good zealot for the cause. W&B have ordained it thus.

That which is vile, glorify. That which is ugly, deify. That which is unholy, worship. And if you don’t, you won’t get a good job.

And who better to sell their souls than young mindless girls who are always willing to trade their souls for flattery and security.

Of course, journalism is doomed, but what the hell. Papers are dying. News operations are scoffed at and held in contempt by anyone with half a brain. But journalism today is betting that not enough people will really wake up until they have created the scorch earth, irretrievable mess that they are creating.

So what if their creation is a shit heap? At least, they will have shown everyone what REAL power is. We can bring down ANYthing. W&B brought down a president. We are going to bring down America and Freedom! Put that in your pipe and smoke it, you old Potomac queens.

"Revolutionary Road" Needs Resurfacing

Ah, Sam Mendes. The man who believes emptiness and profundity are one and the same.

Solomon had the misfortune to watch the second of Mendes’s snide and snooty slapdowns of American exceptionalism the other night, a snoozefest called “Revolutionary Road.” His other piece of sophomoric crap that I am familiar with is “American Beauty,” a work that was given the Best Picture award by the Oscars, and has since proved how totally embarrassing anti-Americanism can be.

This man has absolutely NO understanding of American culture! He’s not one of us, but he feels he has the duty to comment on us because, oh, I don’t know, he’s read "Catcher in the Rye" or some such drivel. He sees all of us Americans as adult Holden Caulfields—yearning (not to be free--simply yearning, because there's nothing else to do) stifled artists, put down and kept down by America’s capitalist system.

We lead pointless lives, have joyless sex, indulge in even more joyless affairs, speak only of mindless things, never laugh other than cynically and bitterly, plod aimlessly toward death—but, oh yes, have an occasional but ever-so-brief moment of enlightenment that shows a glimmer of hope of breaking this cycle. This moment of clarity, of course, is subsumed by the suffocating thing we know as conformity. Mendes knows it as "America."

Great writers such as Sinclair Lewis long ago dealt with this concept of people running into a midlife crisis, reaching for an escape, and then in a bittersweet moment returning to what they escaped from. Works such as "Main Street," "Babbitt," and "Arrowsmith" resound with humor, truth, and wisdom. Above all, though they make fun of many Americans and American institutions, they do not blame or belittle America. The nation is larger than life itself and is the backdrop for stories of individuals. Mendes and his films, however, are bores who put cardboard characters in crisis so that America, not the characters, can be blamed and belittled. There is no, and I mean zero, nada humor in "Revolutionary Road," so you know you are being hit with a heavy hand. It's as enjoyable and light as a Puritan damnation sermon.

Mendes's wife, the vacant smokefest Kate Winslet, is showcased here doing her imitation of Sylvia Plath, the boring neurotic “writer” of the fifties who eventually does herself in by sticking her head in an oven. In "Revolutionary Road," she does herself in by sticking a rubber-hose-thingamajiggy up her twat to induce an abortion that doesn't seem to sit too well. Free of her unwanted unborn child, she gets less than one minute's joy before she begins dripping blood on the living room carpet--and then she dies. (It's as if Mendes is saying, "Damn you, America, if only we had Roe vs. Wade back then, this woman could have reached her potential, but no, she had to resort to 'back alley' methods and see where it ended." Solomon believes that abortion should be allowed only if it guarantees to end a stupid movie and a stupid character early.) Kate’s character here is simply a moronic female who hasn’t the ability to appreciate or to love—yet we are supposed to empathize with her. Puhleeze!

My friend Paco Ramirez has a theory about women: All women are crazy, so if they’re noticeably crazy, at least you know what you’re dealing with. If they don’t appear crazy, you should be well advised to remember that they are and that their insanity is only lying doggo and will manifest itself in even more insidious and more terrifying ways. So, better to get a woman whose craziness is up front. It makes dealing with them easier. I bring this up because Winslet’s character is a perfect example of this. She seems normal, but she is deep-down nuts—with no reason except that she is a woman. And any man understands this. But not Sam Mendes. Mendes naively assumes that the character’s craziness is because of big bad America. This is his great mistake—he blames America when he should have had the maturity and honesty to recognize that the woman is the victim of her own inherent craziness.

I do not find Kate Winslet to be a beautiful woman nor a fascinating actress. She seems to have turned her unplucked, monumental eyebrows toward making “sullen” her trademark acting style. Now, men who are sullen have about them an air of sexy mystery; women who are sullen, on the other hand, have about them an air of stupidity and cuntiness. Kate also seems to have become the mistress of another repetitive action besides taking off her clothes and spreading her legs and simulating orgasm—more than these, she spends her every acting assignment dying. She has become the Absolute Queen of Death in movies—if Winslet’s in the movie, you can lay unbeatable odds that she will expire before the final credits roll. (I also guarantee that you won't shed a single tear when she does!)

That Mendes seems to fancy himself the expert on American Culture is arrogant and ignorant and insulting. He’s not an American, didn’t grow up in the culture he holds up to the lens, and doesn’t have a scintilla of knowledge about it except what he learned from reading such run-down works as those written by Eastern seaboard malcontents and sociopaths such as Salinger. And possibly hobnobbing with despicable liberal members of the New York and Hollywood entertainment world.

A person who was not raised in a culture cannot, despite all his intense desire to do so, truly understand that culture. Period. True knowledge of a culture is the sole province of a born-and-bred insider. Mendes is practicing jejune imposture—his are the actions and reactions of a wannabe who thinks that only an insider could know so much about a culture that he is able to show how truly horribly flawed it is.

Unfortunately, the flaw with Mendes is that his films show how utterly he MISunderstands America and its unique culture. And I personally resent some outsider pretending to understand me and my life by showing how empty and invalid it all is. I think that I, and all Americans (boobs though we may be), are able to judge our existence without the assist of outsiders like Mendes and his wife Winslet, thank you very much.

Mendes has his characters yearn to chuck a fairly lucrative but despicably American life (that is, of course, nothing but quiet desperation—honestly, you’d think they were starving physically the way they carry on) to go to Paris, for God’s sake! It’s the only place where people are really alive, don’t you know. New York City and environs contain no shreds of honesty and fulfillment.

Whew! For a minute there, I thought this movie was supposed to be about adults. But I forgot that it is a Mendes movie, and these are cartoons that make Speed Racer look like Shakespeare by comparison. Nobody has extended families. Every family and every member in that family is a separate, suffering island. And as if this point hasn’t been made perfectly clear to the audience, Mendes brings in a mentally deranged mathematician, son of Kathy Bates, to provide hard, bring-em-to-Jesus scrutiny of their meaningless lives and their fear of facing this fact.

When this element was introduced into the movie, I knew that this “message” was going to be beyond redemption, and I was right. Nothing rings true after this, especially not the joyless sexual couplings that are obligatory in a Mendes movie. Mendes, like Monty Python’s pedantic teacher of sex, makes sex actually uninteresting. If sex were as Mendes portrays in his films, the human race would have ceased to exist right after the Garden of Eden experience.

It has been fair game to knock America and its culture for a long time, and American literature includes satires, analyses, and critiques of this people and place-more-than-a-place that rank as first-rate entertainments and thought pieces. But all these things were produced by insiders, not some outsider who wears a pseudo mantle of sophistication embroidered with the words “You’re too stupid to see how awful you really are” writ large.

Ah Europe. You’ll never understand us. And a word of advice: Don’t write (or make movies) about those things you don’t understand. You end up looking like a fool—and being hated to boot.

A Cut Below

A Cut Below

Let’s call male circumcision what it really is—genital mutilation. It is a perverse evil that is done in the name of a lot of things—religion, tribal loyalty, hygiene (that’s a big HAH!), enlightenment—but all the reasons are subordinate to one: Sexual perversion.

That some old man in ancient days whacked off his foreskin in some kind of demented sexual masochism in the deserts of Israel—and then had to explain his mutated pecker to his wife, so he chose to tell her that God had told him to do this—is nothing more than laughable.

It’s like the guy who went into the emergency room with a flashlight up his ass who said that he was putting on his underwear and he fell on it, and voila, flashlight up the ass.

But Abraham turned his nasty act into a religion, and we wonder why people hate Jews and Muslims. They are incomplete men who take out their sexual frustration on the rest of us, who throw every other tenet of their religion overboard but keep this one. And isn’t it just lovely that they take perfectly healthy boys and, when they can’t defend themselves, cut off the most important part of them. Real manly stuff, this circumcision.

Anyone with half a brain recognizes a truism of life—circumcised penises are markedly shorter than intact penises. The cut dick is permanently and irrevocably shortened—and also made aesthetically unpleasing and unnatural.

Far from improving the penis, circumcision takes a marvel of flexibility and masculine beauty and turns it into a “thing” of no loveliness and unnatural, stunted movement. I tell you, it’s a crime! And any adult who forces this on a boy, and especially without anesthetic, out to be stoned.

Instead, what do we have. Some perverse 20th Century horror of routinely mutilating our boys. No wonder the 20th Century will go down as the nighmare it really was.

Fortunately, America is becoming more enlightened in this area, but there are still some parents who think that circumcising their sons is “just the thing that everyone does.” I mean, isn’t that what were SUPPOSED to do? No, my friends, it is just what NOT to do. It is a sin. And I don’t use the word “sin” very often.

Judaism and Islam are predicated upon the sin of the corrupt deviant Abraham, and it is why these religions deserve the contempt of every right thinking person in the universe. Circumcision also explains why these two religions have been at the center of all the evil in this world.

Every reason speaks against it and none for it, yet it still persists among otherwise intelligent people. But any parent who circumcises his baby son deserves my everlasting contempt and anger.

Whether I will ever speak that anger, the wounding of any innocent will always be in my mind, and I will mutter contempt for the evil that you have perpetrated. Circumcision is an unforgivable sin. It is a form of murder. Murder of innocence and joy—and there is nothing to be gained.

Using the same logic that people use for male circumcision, I believe we should begin practicing breast removal in infancy of all our baby daughters. Without anaesthetic, of course. Think of all the benefits!

Oh, right. That’s funny. I can’t think of any benefits to that practice either.

Circumcision is a repugnant practice that must be stopped completely. It is ungodly and speaks of brainless contempt for God’s gifts to man.

Disposing of Trash--an Earth-Day Proposal

The Bard is Back! And he is angry!

It’s gotten much worse than even this doom-sayer thought it could get. The urine-soaked face of Hillary Clinton, soaked with the drippings of some twat like Janet Reno with whom she played dinosaur (of the Liksalotapus variety) the night before, had the audacity to snarkily malign Dick Cheney’s veracity.

Madam, it is YOU whose veracity has been tried and found wanting—or wanton, as the case may be. You are a lesbian with fat, unshapely, and unsightly ankles who has given new immediacy to the need to enforce retroactive abortions! If ever witch trials were warranted it is now!

Janeane Garofalo, who wins the trifecta for stupid, ugly, and visible, maligned on MSNBC (quelle suprise!) every veteran and enlisted man and woman. She gives new immediacy for the change of laws that prevent violent rape. We should allow, under certain circumstances—and surely Garofolo (an actress who can’t and doesn’t act and a comedian who doesn’t and can't amuse or entertain) qualifies—the forcible rape in, in all orifices, by convicts. Since this act is so repugnant--for the convicts, of course—they would be rewarded with immediate commuting of their sentences for service above and beyond the call of duty. The one requirement is that Janeane Garofalo be rendered incapable of ever walking or talking or peeing or shitting ever again. However, this would not prevent her from being a guest on Keith Olbermann's show.

Eric Holder. Well, what can be said except that his forehead was made for a cross-hairs and his skull for a receptacle for lead. Come on, now, wouldn’t it be delightful to see this bum taken out while he was standing on a stage, ranting against my NRA, thinking he has the world at his command, and then be taken out by a sniper, like Angela Lansbury having her head splattered by Lawrence Harvey at the end of the first, and only great, Manchurian Candidate movie?!

And now for the President. It is sort of an on-going, juvenile joke that the French are incapable of truly brave, macho, courageous acts, but that is not true. As someone of French extraction, Solomon has a particular fondness for the French. And their incredible accomplishments.

If you want something done brilliantly, give the project to the French. Of course, you will have to tell them that no one can do it, and their perverseness will ensure that it will be done—but beyond anything that has ever been done before. The defeat of Islam, the concept and construction of the Eiffel Tower, the beauty and pageantry and elegance of Versailles, the pure brutality of Devil’s Island, the insane pleasure of crème brulle, and the impossible artistry of the Paris subway. Note to anyone who has visited or will visit Paris: If you don’t find the Parisian subway the most perfect blend of technology, engineering, art, efficiency, and French logic, then you have no business reading the Bard Cage! That creation (and Solomon modestly purrs, the Bard Cage as well) is pure brilliance!

Well, the most incredible thing the French ever did was the way they got rid of their oppressive aristocracy—oh, yes, Solomon believes the French Revolution to be a work of blood-soaked high art a la Grand Guignol that instructed the world into how to REALLY have a revolution. The French didn’t go half-assed. They went the fully Monty.

No atrocity in the name of wiping out the ancien regime was too depraved for the Jacobins and the revolutionary fervor of that time. Oh, sure, people in English drawing rooms (and, Solomon shame-facedly admits, himself--though at a much earlier, less-evolved point in life) could wince at the atrocities, while wiping their oh-so-proper lips with silk hankies, but if you don't think that watching someone’s blood spurt twenty feet into the air when his/her head has been lopped off quickly is a mighty gratifying revenge, then you don't know true hatred!

And we Americans are learning what HATE is all about--the destruction of the American dream by a black dimwit. The price, M. Obama--just your head and your blood. And the head and the blood of everyone who has stood with you (oops, there goes NBC!).

Blood was what the French people needed. And that’s what we Americans need now.

So I say, “Bring back the guillotine!” We need it for all the people in the Obama administration, and the piece de resistance will be the Man Himself. Solomon, you can bet, will be there knitting furiously! When Obama's smug monkey face has no teleprompters to turn to, he will have to lie down on the board, look long and deep into the basket, and wince as the blade severs his ugly, empty head from his frumpy fish-wife body.

Solomon will shout, "Allez!"

Because of the shortness and nature of his hair, the official will not be able to raise the head for the orgiastic crowds to cheer, but with today’s video technology, we will get the thrill of seeing the death of the Antichrist in living and glorious high definition television—from seventeen different angles! Oh, the fantasy does me good!

Nothing satisfies the need for revenge like the guillotine. And no place would be better suited for it than on the eastern steps of the Capitol. Wouldn’t you love to see his blood running down, step by step, into the water of the pond wherin stands the equestrian statue of what is truly a great American, Ulysses S. Grant?

I don’t know about you, but I would certainly contribute to a fund to buy Barack Obama a ticket to Ford’s Theater to see a production of Our American Cousin. On one condition, of course. And that is that security be as lax as it was in 1865 when another president went there.

Michelle's Pyrrhic Victory Garden

It’s somewhat unsettling to see Michelle Obama ripping up the White House lawn to plant a garden, for I fear the place is going to start resembling one of those places that in Solomon's youth was called "Reform School."

Just writing those dreadful words sent a cold chill from the past coursing through my veins.

Once a year, every year we drove to my paternal grandparents’ place on the opposite end of the state. This being long before the government in its demented wisdom took to building interstate highways, we always drove ever so slowly through the myriad of wonders of our state. One of the highlights that never failed to impress was the grim, and I mean unbelievably grim, stone walls of the state penitentiary where the electric chair did its handiwork. We drove extra slowly past these stones.

After that, though, came the piece de resistance in my father's continuous commentary of demonic morality by which he terrified us and amused himself. We drove past the state reform school for boys, and there they’d be, male miscreants, out in the fields silently and sullenly cultivating the vast gardens that would feed them through the winter without heat or comfort.

Cabbages--ever requiring to be weeded by the shuffling teens who moved like robots--miles and miles of cabbages and angry eyes looking at cars that went by--escape ever on the mind.

This grim scene was never passed without humorless comments from my parents in the front seat--from here, it was only a small step to that horrible stone wall. The implication was also always made that my brother and I would end up there for—well, the infractions were left to our minds, the better to cause us dread.

So the scene from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue is, I am pretty certain, a prelude to more and more grass being ripped up by the First Lady’s chilling commands. Until there is no grass left. Just “garden.”

And then “garden” planted in—you guessed it—cotton!

And the workers in the “garden” will be all white people, stupid liberal white people who will think it actually a privilege to be able to work for the Dark Lady and Laddie. And the overseers, er, excuse me, "attendants" will all be black.

Those that don't find her garden to be to their liking will find themselves studying grim gray stone walls--from the inside. And they shouldn't be surprised if the lights mysteriously and often flicker and fade.

And Miss Michelle Herself will spend many a precious moment, sitting up on the Truman Balcony, sipping venom and cackling, and always savoring watching the debasing spectacle of America humiliating itself in front of her, and for her, and because of her.

“Here’s a little reminder to all you whities. What we got here is REPARATIONS!” you’ll hear her screeching at odd hours.

Venezuelan tourists, specially transported here from that workers’ paradise to the south, will marvel at what a determined and implacable hatred can really accomplish, so long as you have a media that thinks just like her. And which thinks that they will never be ensnared by the rotten system they've created.

Yes, Miss Michelle be livin’ large in Tara (it’s only a matter of time till all the black servants in that big house are required to wear white face makeup an step lively, REAL lively when they approach Big Mama)!

And it starts with a simple, oh-so-sweet, little garden.
The Children's Garden.
The Garden Sinister.
You jes' wait.
Some "victory," eh?

Disney Dog Crap

How can you tell when a culture has truly become debased?

Come on. It’s a fair question. Most of us believe this, but we don’t have a specific hook to hang our “Debased” hat on.

Well, Solomon is here to tell you that is when children’s entertainment has been perverted to support an unholy agenda. And that is what has happened in the land of the formerly free. Proof? Beverly Hills Chihuahua, from the poisoned minds at Disney.

I have to tell you, Solomon was actually looking forward to seeing this trifle as a Friday evening divertissement featuring dogs. Solomon, who usually prefers his entertainments to be somewhat challenging to the intellect, can occasionally cotton up to mindless nonsense occasionally.

But he didn’t think that such simple thing as a Disney dog movie would provoke such a visceral spasm of rage in him. For what he saw was not an entertaining dog movie, but proof of how low the cultural thieves have sunk to destroying what was once good.

Now, any Disney animal movie is going to have a degree of anthropomorphism involved—there would be a heckuva lot fewer cartoons if this were not so. So, we are all acculturated to accept this concept.

But within bounds. BHC went WAY over the line and plunked down solidly into Stalinist/Nazi Propaganda Land. It is actually telling kids how evil America and white people and capitalists are, for God’s sake! It is trying to turn our kids against the greatness that is America!

Lest you think Solomon himself has perhaps suffered a mishap to the “Proportional” side of his brain, let me walk you through this most problematic of movies.

Brush aside silly inconsistencies and unrealities as dogs tolerating booties and people being able to take dogs back and forth across the Mexican-American border. Plot exigencies sometimes requires us to swallow such things.

And we know from the get-go that the animals are, since they are going to speak, going to be anthropomorphized. OK. But are we going to totally remove their dogness in the process? That is exactly what happens here. These are NOT!!!! dogs. Though they wear the outward form of too-cute Chihuahuas (Solomon must fondly confess to owning a Chihuahua, but she is one who, because of slipshod breeding, is really a Chalupa, not a full-blooded Chihuahua), these Disney "dogs" do not display one bit of canine thinking or behavior. They think and behave—are you ready?—like human beings! Totally!

So we must analyze them as human beings, and not dogs. This movie is not going to teach you anything about dogs. It’s not going to produce any “How precious” moments, for those moments have been manipulated with CG effects. No, there’s no real dog story here at all. The dogs were the misused vehicles to promote a Leftist agenda.

What we are faced with is a young white American girl who, despite having been raised in a privileged environment, has absolutely no social class or dignity at all. Everything about her is insulting and, more important, demeaning to American white women. She looks down on all people of color or the working class with an insensitivity that even an ancien regime French aristocrat could not have pulled off.

She is the ugliest of Ugly Americans. Her aunt, a mindless mogul of millions, who does not a scintilla of real work, paper or otherwise, creates endless acts of animal cruelty and human cruelty and fauna cruelty, subjecting everything near her to be twisted out of its intended shape and destiny and into something that only a mindless moron at Disney (or a sinister apparatchik at the Overlord Simian’s bunker) could find airy and amusing.

This is not amusing. This is horrifying. This is Dr. Mengele making brown eyes blue with painful ocular injections. This is EVIL!

Oh, but it’s just for kids, for God’s sake! Of course it is.

The two Chihuahuas represent the humans. The female Chloe is white; the male Papi is brown. Gee, and the American girl is white and spoiled and contemptible, and the Mexican “landscaper” is (well, not brown, but could maybe be Hispanic) down-to-earth, hard-working, creative, honest, noble.

No stereotypes here, are there? Well, not exactly stereotypes unless you are a full-blown Stalinist who subscribes to the idea that all Capitalists are manipulating and marauding harridans, that all American whites are Nazi Supremacists, and that all people from other countries are down-trodden and worth all the rest.

Of course, white girl has to come to her senses (Chloe, the dog, when she drops her spangly booty off the train; white girl, when she realizes that Mexican guy might be a good lay—Hey! I didn’t write this script—that’s what it’s all about—white girls have to find third-worlders to fulfill their sexual fantasies). When she does, Mother Theresa would have looked cruel by comparison.

Message: Americans must throw off their addiction to capitalism and racial cruelty and they will be liberated, just as Che Guevara liberated so many (alas, liberated them from the land of living) to lead truly ennobled lives of selflessness.

Cue the twinkling birds of Cinderella.

This movie was written by and produced by people who have an agenda to subvert America and your kids. They promulgate that whites, capitalism, and America are bad, bad, bad, and that third-world poverty is oh-so-blessed and ennobling.

This movie is bad entertainment but even worse in its subversive subtext. Don’t buy into the crap that this is just a Chihuahua representation of Paris Hilton goes third world. There’s nothing satirical about this movie.

It is sinister.

Don’t let your children watch it. Unless with you, and let them hear you loud and clear scream against the Commie Marxists Who Betray Us All!

Ain't Nuttin' 'Rong wit Bein' Racist

And What’s Wrong with Racism?

Everyone in this country is secretly snarling under an enforced cloak of “respectability” that the worst among us has forced to be worn.

It has become Accepted Conventional Wisdom that racism is an atavistic, Neanderthal way of thinking, that education and acculturalization can and have taken away. Expressions of racism are not to be tolerated (Note to Mark Fuhrman—Should’ve manned up, there, boy! It wouldn’t have made an iota of difference to THAT jury!) because they are bad, wicked, unenlightened, and wrong.

Well, sorry to disagree with the Accepted Conventional Wisdom, but racism is actually good, and failure to express it, or, more correctly, failure to be able to express it, is like putting the proverbial potato in the exhaust pipe—when she blows, she’ll blow everything with it, engine and all.

Now, Solomon wants you to think about how our society is structured. We are supposed to be supportive of our families, to the point of triumphing over other families. Same goes with schools, organizations, work places, teams, and countries.

But when it comes to two areas, the ACW (aka, the Stalinist Left), such triumphalism is not only not good but is not to be tolerated, to the point of death (metaphorical or, I suppose, if they had their way, actual).

Those areas are race and religion.

Try expressing publicly the idea that you believe that the Christian religion is superior to those gutter religions of Judaism and Islam and see how you are applauded by fellow Christians. Hah! They will slink back into some dark hole where they believe they won’t be tarred with the same stick that you are going to get tarred with.

But if you think THAT is going to cause apoplectic convulsions, try uttering the belief that your race is superior to others, that other races are, by their very nature, inferior—and you don’t mean politically or morally, just mean that, by comparison, they are children of a lesser god.

Yet, if a black man asserts that he is superior to me in the matter of basketball and dance, not only will I not argue with him—I will whole-heartedly agree. And we will both laugh about it. I am a dreadfully earth-bound white guy.

So why is it so shocking when I assert that intellectually I am superior, able to reason better, able to govern better than he? I am. I have never known a black person to be as intelligent as I. Shouldn’t we both be able to agree that this is true and sit back and laugh about it?

I do not say, in saying this, that I am deserving of special legal treatment or that I have earned a special berth ahead of him in the train to heaven—I merely am asserting a truth of nature.

Asians have a capacity for business, acrobatics (see Cirque de Soleil), and arithmetic repetitiveness that I, nor any of my fellow white travelers, do not have—except in rare circumstances.

And if any of you who are reading this have never seen an American Indian physically move things, then you have no idea of what real strength and determination are.

Each race has its peculiar superiorities, and these superiorities are the envy of the other races. That is why it is incumbent upon each race to push its own superiority as the most desirable of all—whether or not they really believe it. It is a part of what we have all been brought up to believe—We’re Number One. Our Team Is Best! We Are the Champions, My Friend.

We know that we are not the champions, the best, in all fields—dammit! So touting our own race’s superiority is really an admission that ours is not one that is superior--in every realm. We need all the races--in order to be complete and whole and perfect.

Dammit to hell! We need to be racists and we need other races. Quelle conundrum!

Racism is an expression of what is good in ourselves and those like us, but it is also an acceptance of the greatness of all other races and the acceptance of our own deficiencies. Thus, it is an ackowledgement of their superiority--in certain areas.

Let’s stop muzzling this honest expression of pride in being superior to others—just let’s keep in mind that we are only superior is SOME ways, not all.

So let's encourage our kids and everyone else to be racists. It is the ultimate tool to achieve self-esteem (that elusive leprechaun of the Left) and to achieve tolerance (that other elusive fairy of the Left). Give the Left what they so desire--RACISM!!!! An answer to all problems.

Three cheers for Racism!

Fairies of Obamaland

It can’t JUST be me who has noticed that there is…um, how should we say?...a fey little fluttering of wings in the White House of one B. Hussein Obama, could it?

I have detected for some time a heavy whiff of lavender-scented sachet being wafted on the currents that emanate from those who have surrounded the Negro-in-Charge. From such gushy, unmanly supporters such as Chris Matthews and Keith Olberman, we have gotten very unsettling proclamations of homo-eroticism.

Not that there’s anything wrong with homo-eroticism, of course.

Well, nothing wrong with it unless it is helping to destroy the America that has been the beacon of the world for all these years.

I am telling you that there are fairies in the White House, but these aren’t the cute little ones that Shakespeare envisioned in Midsummer Night’s Dream. These are the fairies that infested—and destroyed—the Nazi Third Reich!

Hitler was surrounded by fairies—my God! Who but a fairy could have designed all those butch SS uniforms and all that homo-erotic symbolism attached to the Evil Reich?

Fairies surround themselves in a world of hyper-masculinity, a fantasy-land designed by Tom of Finland (check it out on-line if you don’t know the reference). That way, they can PLAY at being men without actually BEING men. And fairies are nothing if not spectacular in designing the accoutrements of a hyper-masculine world.

I want you to think “Rahm Emanuel.” Here is a poseur of masculinity who bristles with Jewish brutishness but who sashays with Chicago fagishness. He likes to come across as tough as an elephant’s ass, but he actually has the simpering vulnerability of a prairie buttercup.

And then there are the Hillary fairies, Begala and Carville. All bluster, but tinged with dusting powder from Big Mama’s sweaty cracks. They lick when they are told. And now they have to ingest the effluvia from the man-child monkey—and his harridan spouse, she of the lesbian arms and ass.

Have you ever seen a fairy more powdered and preening than the current press secretary? His bulky beam would strain the structure of the gossamer wings of fairies of yore, yet still he would sail upon the sultry main, singing the hosannas to the Obamas.

Yes, the discomfiture you feel about the whole situation you see in America arises from the creepiness of fairyland. Fairies, you see, can and do carry guns and subpoenas.

Monkey See, Monkey Read

He speaketh well? Methinks NOT!

I have had it up to HERE with people who should know better saying that Obama is a gifted speaker. Have we lowered our standards so low that we are willing to say such outrageous lies?

Winston Churchill was a gifted speaker. Ronald Reagan was a gifted speaker. Margaret Thatcher was a gifted speaker. But our Othello is not even good, let alone gifted. He’s a stuttering fool who cannot do anything but turn his head left then turn his head right. His cadences are of someone reading from a Tele-prompter situated on poles to, quelle suprise!, the left and the right.

Six syllables to the right, six syllables to the left. Inappropriate voice rises like a poor poetry reading (poetry, that is, that has rhythm and rhyme, not the crap that passes for poetry nowadays).

Our Obama’s an automaton who reads what white guys have written. When you become aware that he never faces the front, possibly you might think at first that he is trying to distract you from his misshapen monkey ears. But that is not what is going on.

He is a trapped creature trying to please his masters who own him—his handlers, his moneymen, and the media—swinging his head endlessly back and forth from one printed plate of glass to the other, inflecting monotonously and inappropriately because—HE DOESN’T UNDERSTAND WHAT THE HELL HE’S READING!!!

At the press conferences, his “spontaneous” thoughts are being speed-written by his owners behind the scenes. If the system goes down, the press conference will be immediately disrupted by some need for him to be called away, mark my words. This monkey cannot speak on his own.

Why are so many otherwise intelligent people giving this a pass? Well, first of all, after the bumbling extemporanea of the Bush years, everyone is yearning for articulateness. And the Democrats know this, and they are committed to providing everyone with this quality, of course, so that their agenda can get advanced.

And in Obama, they thought they had the genuine article. But reality just had to go and rear its ugly head. Their unassailable, articulate Negro was a halting, inarticulate boob that was painful to witness. So they had to quickly provide the ILLUSION of articulateness, and that is what we’re seeing/hearing now.

Easy, they thought. Hell, FDR got away with being unable to walk without people knowing it for all those years. We only have to have this poor doofus read for eight years. No one will ever catch on that he can’t speak, let alone HAVE, a real thought on his own.

But this charade is already starting to fall apart, even with the collusion of so many rich and powerful people in controlling places. He can’t stand alone! He’s attached to technological strings! The Puppet Obama--like those clever voice prompts that talk to you so often today and which try oh-so-hard to give the illusion of being real people, not disembodied, carefully thought out scripts—ain’t going to convince even his Stepford supporters too much longer.

Nazi sympathizer and radical totalitarian supporter George Soros has probably already realized that his Negro has no pleasing patter to fall back upon when push comes to shove. And the pushing and shoving is just getting started. Soros has got himself an unsympathetic but solipsistic and narcissistic liability on his hands.

When publics turn, they turn quickly—and viciously. And this little man is going to find himself having to be wrapped in a Beltway Cocoon that will eventually be deprived of oxygen.

Oh, yes, I am saying that the Democratic establishment is going to turn ugly and start ripping this scarecrow to pieces, and that horrible hag of a wife of his, too. (Sidebar: Style, indeed! If she has style, it is all the style of a tropical mud village. Those bare arms are manly—probably from having to hold up and defend the guy she’s married to.)

Every day, Obamita appears more and more out of touch and out of tune with reality. You know that the military sneers at him behind his back—they are forbidden to criticize him, otherwise we’ll be holding our breaths for a military coup d’etat.

When one is looking for guidance in one’s own time, he can not do better than look back at the Roman Empire and find its parallels. They, more than any other civilization, went through everything. So it is fitting to seek knowledge from what happened to the Empire when an emperor or other ruler felt himself to be more important than the empire itself. So, would the Secret Service take a bullet for Obama? Yes, the way Caligula’s Praetorian Guard protected that Roman Emperor who also thought of himself as divine.

Do not underestimate the pleasure that most people will feel, albeit perhaps disguised under crocodile tears, with the sudden demise of a man-who-would-be-god. Let’s not forget, there was a deliciousness even in the blood that ran at the base of Pompey’s statue in the Roman Senate.

Bring on the poisoned pears! And even more for the bare-armed lady with the fat ass!

Die, My Darlings!

There is a trajectory that is invariably followed in republics—once women are allowed to vote, the republic begins its decline.

A republic can tolerate no more than one hundred years of female suff(e)rage until it has been totally emasculated. Better that a culture die a violent death than to ignominiously die by the slow suffocation in estrogen-drenched politics.

America was doomed to go the way of all great societies when men succumbed to sirens harping for equality. Women don’t understand history, much as they do not understand art, architecture, engineering, poetry, or much of anything, really. But they desperately love to insert themselves into the masculine worlds and try, by imitative mastery, at which they, like parrots, are quite good, to prove that they really are men’s equals.

But they are not. Oh, morally, before the law, in God’s eyes—of course. But in abilities, women have a unique ability merely to destroy, not to build.

The old tale in the Garden of Eden of the Fall, if not factually true, contains an element of truth—if you want to destroy a man, you only have to go through a woman. And the way you get to her is to promise that she will be the man’s equal or superior. In our society, think "college degree."

Well, that is what giving them the right to vote (and even worse, hold office!) has done. The republic is on the verge of collapse, and will collapse in the not too distant future. Every woman is a tyrant at heart, and she will propel man’s greatest achievements into ruin so that she can live a tyrant in a tyranny.

If you do not think that women are the source of all evil and that, rather, they are our softer, gentler, more reasonable nature, look at the world of lesbianism. This is a world where women live without the domination of men. It is a humorless, vile, crude, uncreative netherworld that raises revulsion in men and real women. The only similarity between the worlds of gay men and of lesbians is that neither has sex with women!

If you want to prove my point, go to a restaurant in Palm Spring, CA, during the notoriously lesbo Dinah Shore golf tournament. Waiters and waitresses and bartenders will all be trying to suppress sneers of disgust at the human debris that is lesbianism, women without men.

Women have always been envious of men, and Eve was susceptible to the flattery of the serpent. She had no other motive than to prove she was Adam’s superior, and look at the chaos that she brought about. Whether true or not, this is a story that has played itself out time and time again.

Alas, it is playing itself out in America during my lifetime, and dammit, I resent the cunts for this! I want all of you to notice how men are portrayed in popular entertainments and commercials. Men are stupid, women know better, men are oafs, men are talentless boobs.

If men are creating these things, and I suppose there are some who are so hard up that they will betray their own (probably to please women), it shows that the end truly is near.

Solomon wants to take away women’s right to vote, to allow women to hold jobs that only women are truly suited for, and certainly to get them out of the education system. We are in decline because of the bitches!

The only societies in the world that are in the ascendancy are those that require women to be subordinate to men. Anymore, I am merely polite to women. I don’t respect them, because they don’t deserve respect.

I wouldn’t allow my dogs or cats to dictate what goes on in my life. I won’t allow women to do that either. Please do not think that I am saying that pets and women are the same. Of course not. Pets actually provide us with real pleasure and enrichment.

The only way to save what our forefathers created is to undo these dreadful, Biblical mistakes. Well, Adam couldn’t change it. Neither can we.

We’re doomed.

Thanks, Ladies! (Spit, phoosh, gag!)

Frizzy Ends

It’s book review time, and Solomon is not happy.

He just finished reading Dean Koontz’s The Good Guy, a work that came recommended as the year’s best by no less an authority than Stephen King.

Understand that Solomon doesn’t read much fiction these days, so when he does, he expects an exciting entertainment. (Solomon did all that “thoughtful” fiction back when he was young and read a lot faster than he does now—and had a higher tolerance for crap.)

So, when he made the commitment to read a fiction work, he had high hopes that THIS time Dean Koontz wouldn’t let him down. Now, let me tell you Koontz is a fine writer, with great verbal skill. He can create character with dialogue like no one else. And he has an ability to create suspense that is second to none.

But he has his tics, and they are super annoying. He is prone to recycle characters; he is too fond of certain uncommon words that call attention to themselves; he wallows in the maudlin, though he tries to appear hard-boiled; he will solve plot dilemmas with the deus ex machina of the supernatural; and he will deliberately try to gross you out, though, to his great credit, without ever resorting to bad language.

It would seem from this list of faults that Solomon doesn’t like Koontz at all, but this is not so. The man is an inventive and driven dynamo of a writer whose complete list of achievements is staggering. He must write faster than most people read! And when he’s on his game, there is simply no one better.

And his beginnings! My God, no one writes a better, more compelling first chapter than Dean Koontz!

But for the last five years, Koontz seems to have put so much into his stories that he quits writing them when they are three quarters over. I believe he has been handing off his denouements to some sketchy Vietnam vet who holds a sign “Will Finish Book for Food.”

Koontz builds incredible skyscrapers and stops building before the roof’s in place. He’s the quarterback of the team who takes them down to the two-yard line and then fumbles. He is the guy who swims across the lake and gives up within sight of the shore. He is the ultimate coitus interruptus.

I’ll tell you exactly where he quit writing The Good Guy—Chapter 57. The first fifty-six are inspired, crackling suspense. But he might as well have said, at the end of Chapter 56, “And he woke up and found out that he’d been having a bad dream.”

If he were a salesman, it would be said of him that he gives the greatest presentation, but he can’t close the deal. His Frankenstein series—great fun, but not even a bad ending—just NO ending. Book after book of his leads us down into the dungeon where the monster is hiding. He takes us up to the door behind which it is lurking. And then…well, then the door swings open and you shoot the monster and he dies, end of story.

When you prepare a reader to stand in front of the monster’s lair, there damn well better be a monster back there that is going to leap out at us chase us and scare us until we can’t take it any longer. Suspense doesn’t end when you open the door—opening the door is the beginning of the REALLY bad stuff!

It’s not as if Koontz isn’t aware of this, for he created what has to be one of the finest, most satisfying endings in all of literature in his masterpiece, Life Expectancy.

So one can only conclude that he has gotten lazy. But damn, he owes us more. And note to Stephen King: The Good Guy is NOT the best book of 2008, and you should know better.

Solomon's Garden

The best-tended garden is subject to frost. All the labor and all the fertilizer will not extend it one day beyond one night of frost.

Oh, it doesn’t seem fair, of course, but it is the way of the world. All our glorious efforts and designs have an expiration date. We wake up one morning and every one of our flowers from which we had hoped to get some more blooms and every one of our vegetables from which we had hoped to get one more crop have turned to an unrecognizable, and very sad, puddle of mush.

Gardens are metaphors of all human endeavors. What could be more full of promise (except maybe a hedge fund promoter) than a seed catalogue in February? Ideas begin to turn into reality as the spring progresses, and then summer seems to propel winter’s ideas into the stratosphere. But all too soon, so soon, the stillness of the frost.

Gardens teach patience, diligence, and acceptance. We must accept that there are forces beyond our control. We must accept that nature knows better than we. We must accept that nothing is achieved without effort. We must accept that all things end. And we must accept that all the schedules are on a timetable of a higher power.

People who don’t have gardens, if they know these things, know them only as academic abstractions. On the other hand, those who garden, on whatever scale, understand that the garden is where all knowledge is made real, where philosophy and reality meet, and where the hours spent in the garden are hours spent in touch with the eternal.

Solomon’s garden is better than any library, lecture, or learned treatise into the mind of God, into His will. Pope says that “the proper study of mankind is man,” and that is true, but man is an abstraction, and abstractions can only truly be known by indirection. In other words, by metaphors, analogies. All learning is grounded in physical reality. But nothing beats a garden for providing both physical and metaphysical pleasure.

I don’t like, trust, or understand people who don’t appreciate dirt. Unless infirm and incapable of doing garden work, one should never hire others to do the gardening. Theirs will be only a job, they will be only functionaries, and the results will be symbolically imperfect, though perhaps pretty. One can appreciate fully only his own dirt. Employees, alas, can’t appreciate YOUR dirt. Only you can do that.

Frost. And all one’s efforts and hopes lie in ruin. Whatever will propel one to do this all over again? The results will be absolutely the same. Again, we must rely on Pope to provide the pithy rationale: Hope springs eternal in the human breast, Man never is but always to be blessed.

Gardens work on yearly cycles. Every year we get a chance to beat the odds and work against the forces of destruction. Of course, we lose, but ah, February and those catalogues!

High Fructose Corn Poison

Those huge fat asses waddle to and fro
Or ride on scooters, from row to row
Not speaking here of Michelangelo

We are not a nation that has gotten fat. No, we are a nation that has been made fat!

I want all of you to look at pictures from the seventies. Do you notice how absolutely thin everyone is? And do you think that we were taking better care of ourselves then? Hardly! We probably drank more sodas, smoked more cigarettes, consumed more sugar, and downed more fat than the nanny state would ever allow now. And yet everyone was thin.

How could this be? The fattest person back then would be considered of average weight today. What has happened is appalling, but it isn’t because people fundamentally altered their lifestyles (as the deniers would have you believe). Something else happened to change the nation’s weight.

That thing is something that was introduced into the food chain, and that thing became a part of nearly everything. The eighties saw the beginnings of a fundamental change in the average weight of an American, and then it accelerated in the nineties and into the new century.

So, what is this thing that has been foisted upon the public? It is the creepiest, most insidious change in food of all time—it is the evil witch’s brew known as High Fructose Corn Syrup.

Oh, don’t think this stuff is some kind of benign sweetening agent made somewhere in Iowa by peasants stomping corn kernels. This is something more akin to a chemical whipped up in a KGB lab somewhere in Russia to render the capitalist agents of the West inert and incapable of fighting back.

But the KGB didn’t make this stuff. It is the product of the unholy alliance between big agriculture and government that came about as a result of greed and government meddling in agricultural price manipulation. It is, in short, the result of our decaying republic’s corruption and blindness.

Government, you see, protected sugar producers to the point of making their product artificially expensive. Business responded by looking for ways to replace sugar at a fraction of the price. Big agriculture in the Midwest also wanted to shore up corn prices.
Voila! Corn slurry is chemically transmogrified into a new blend of sucrose and fructose, and it can be made for less than sugar can be grown (at the artificially government mandated prices that Congress ensured). What wasn’t to like about this product?

Through the eighties, this new brew spread like wildfire through the food manufacturing industry, providing cheaper sweetening, longer shelf life of manufactured food products, and happy corn farmers. But the dark side began to appear, gradually, as a growing waist size started happening in America.

The average waist size began creeping up, attributed to the maturing of the baby boomers, but it wasn’t what it seemed to be. This wasn’t a natural expansion. It was being fueled by the new product that had become ubiquitous (and unnoticed by all but a few).

Year after year, the extra pounds were adding up until it was becoming quite noticeable—Americans had become really a lot heavier. And, instead of being rare, truly obese people were just about everywhere. Oh, hands started wringing that Americans were just failing to exercise, eating too much fast food, consuming too much fat. Everywhere villains were spotted, but all the villains were the consumers themselves.

But the truth was that even people following the healthiest of regimens were becoming heavier, with more body fat. When filming the Civil War battle scenes for the movie Cold Mountain, the cast of extras had to be from eastern European countries that didn’t have HFCS in their diets. American soldiers just were way too heavy to look believable as Civil War soldiers!

Kids are fatter, adults are fatter, even thin people are fatter. And it is NOT because we have lost our moral way. We have, and I can’t state this strongly enough, we have been POISONED!

This stuff is worse than any carcinogen in cigarettes—this stuff is truly insidious, for no one knew this would be the side effect of the toxic brew. An entire nation, and increasingly and entire world, made fat without their consent because of bad government policies and greed.

We must not tolerate this poison in our lives. We must write to every company that uses this poison. Hershey’s (can you believe it? Chocolate syrup just full of this crap!!!). Heinz (not ketchup, too!! Sadly, yes). Little Debbie Snack Cakes (the infamy!). Write to them and tell them (and mean it) that you refuse to use any of their products with HFCS in them.

At first, they will think you are just a lunatic who has nothing better to do with his life. But enough of these letters will start a small ripple on their complacent lakes of bottom lines. But soon enough the words “Contains No HFCS” will become the hot selling ticket, and the stuff will disappear from the shelves as quickly as Olestra, that crazy oil substitute that created uncontrollable anal leakage. Remember Wow! potato chips? One serving of those things, and you’d better not sneeze in public!

We’ve been eating this stuff without noticing for over twenty years. The results of stopping aren’t going to be seen for, well, perhaps decades. We just don’t know what kind of long-term damage has been done to our systems by HFCS, so we don’t know how long the reversal will take to show results.

I want to be optimistic, but if you are like the average American, struggling to keep weight off but just can’t, remember to thank the wealthy farmers, politicians, and chemical manufacturers who poisoned us for the two decades of the fin de siecle for keeping those pounds on. We really must start fighting back and insisting that our food contain nothing that wasn’t available in 1970.

Can you believe that food was better for you then than it is now?! Start today consuming nothing, and I mean NOTHING, including ketchup, that has this poison in it. It’s the only way to begin the reversal.

And start writing to companies and talking to people. Remember, there are huge forces out there with a lot of money and power who want this poison to continue. But this is the new fight for our century, just as Upton Sinclair attacked the meat industry at the beginning of the last century.

Andrew Lloyd Weber's Obamita!

It has become impossible to ignore in these two weeks since January 20, 2009, that America got its own Eva Peron. The only differences are he’s not blond, he’s not as intelligent, and he’s more deluded about his abilities than Evita ever was.

It is only a matter of time before the White House is painted pink and we find this poseur standing on the balcony babbling through microphones about his descamisados. And the money kept rolling in from all directions.

Yes, Madame President reminds me eerily of an androgynous Eva-wannabe. Those repulsive pictures of him in a swimming suit revealed a fleshy not-quite-man emerging Boticelli-like from his seashell. That anyone could say that man is in good shape or is sexy or is manly would feel equally at home in North Korea flattering that ugly little retard known as Dear Leader.

America’s old-fashioned news outlets and their minions have “Gone the Goebbles,” as they say. This, of course, was inevitable when women began taking over the duties that belong to men. Also, college educated people really are the stupidest people on the planet, but none are stupider than journalism majors.

When the education establishment began dictating what constituted real journalistic standards, the end was in sight. It reminds one of the skit by Monty Python where John Cleese teaches sex to a class of boys. He actually has sex, but is so pedantic that the boys don’t pay a whit of attention. This is what education did to journalism.

Education robs people of common sense and natural instincts. Now, of course, tempering certain natural instincts is not such a bad thing, such as training people to be patient, but in the case of journalism the natural instinct to be on the side of truth and right and justice just got thrown under the bus. The angle became all important.

Well, this would have worked all right if the news consumers had been likewise changed, but they weren’t. We remain the same unwashed oafs we’ve always been, so we have drifted away from these people who purvey the news to us. The separation is coming upon us inexorably—and with greater accumulating speed than anyone ever imagined.

Do colleges and universities still take the money of the gullible young who want to “major in journalism”? I’m sure they do, but aren’t these schools duty-bound to tell these feckless girls (fully ninety percent of them are of that inclination) that they will never, repeat NEVER find a job that pays enough to make the rent on a ghetto flat? I’m sure they don’t. These colleges and universities should be hauled into court for swindling.

If these young journalists had any sense they would realize that prostitution in the old sense is more lucrative and less demeaning and requires less borrowed money to get established. News organizations today are not battle-hardened, cynical, hard-drinking men but rather sharp-jawed females from places like Brown and Cornell and Amherst bitter that they weren’t able to get any guys to fall for them.

That is why they are so enamored of the sexless bore we have elected for President, and why they are so willing to overlook the obvious. Watch tweener girls swooning over the latest heartthrob. This is a boy about as sexless and threatening as Michael Jackson (though not as scary facewise).

Reporterettes now find themselves writing stories for others just like themselves, though they haven’t clued in to the fact that the public is about ninety percent different from themselves. Of course we’re going to be repulsed by this drivel! And we’re going to tell them to go peddle their wares elsewhere.

I predict that talk radio is going to explode in the next two years as the cognitive dissidence escalates between the public and the news media. As they more stridently tell us that Evita-Obama is wise and articulate and intelligent and forceful and manly and womanly etc., real men and women are going to forsake them in droves.

It’s happening now. I predict that most of today’s newspapers will be out of business within two years. And then what will Obama Peron do to keep the public in line with the media? The media is going down. And only other media types will be wiping away tears with their crocodile hankies.

Schadenfreude will never feel so satisfying as when the NY Times finally prints its last edition. Millions of puppies will no longer be able to pee and poop on Paul Krugman’s and Maureen Dowd’s drivel.

And as they fall, so will the Fraud from Chicago fall as unceremoniously as the statue of Saddam Hussein. Like Evita, he’ll dispatch jack-booted thugs in grisly reprises of the 1930s and 1940s. Count on it. All fascists behave exactly the same way. Eva was one, Juan was one, and Obama is one.

The only difference is that he isn’t going to be able to offer up such a good show. He won’t wear his Adrians and Diors as well. And God help him and us if he ever quits smoking!

Oh, Dear Obamito(a), keep on puffing and preening. The time for such things is much more limited than it used to be.