Wednesday, June 30, 2021

“When Mama Ain’t Happy”: Hillary Clinton meets Tammy Wynette

 If Hillary Clinton were a man | CNN

 Womanhood (album) - Wikipedia

 

“Ever since Monday
I’ve seen it comin’
When I say what’s wrong
She just says nothin’
Well, I ain’t about to let it go
‘Cause I’ve loved her long enough to know.

When mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy
So daddy’s gonna make mama happy tonight.”

                                          

I’ve got a limo waitin’ and dinner reservations
A corner table with some candlelight.

We’re gonna spend some money, I’m gonna call her honey
I wanna see the sparkle back in her eyes.”

                   When Mama Ain’t Happy, Tracy Byrd

 

 

So, Daddy plans to attend to Mama’s unhappiness “tonight.” At the end of the evening Mama will be talking again, and smiling again, and …  again, the way Daddy was hoping.

 

But that’s one night, and the take away to ponder is that the “ain’t nobody happy” part of this song’s conditional means that in the “battle of the sexes” – manifest in its many permutations both blatant and subtle – Mama gets to call the shots. Keeping Mama happy is Daddy’s full-time job. Maybe that’s fine with Daddy. He loves her. Some jobs are very fulfilling and rewarding; but then some are not. Johnny Paycheck, perhaps, comes to mind. “Take this job and shove it.” He then hints at why he is tendering his resignation: “My woman done left and took all the reason I was working for.” Well, Ok, I get it, and that, again, suggests how much power women seem to exert over men. Lots of power – It’s the truth: ignore it at your own peril.

 

“When Mama ain’t happy” is one of my favorites because that line contains, what for lack of a better term, I call the kind of “folk wisdom” that country music can deliver with an emotional wallop. Almost any grown man I casually offer that “wisdom” to – “Well, you know. When Mama ain’t happy…” – will merely grin, shake his head and confirm – “Yeah.”

 

That line is so compelling because of the possibility for teasing out different insights into what men and women do to and for each other and beyond – the good, the bad and the ugly.    

 

The folk wisdom I find in “When Mama…” comes with love and affection – no cynicism attached that I can discern. Men want, no, they need, to keep women happy not just because it might make them “friendly” when the sun goes down, but because it’s what they’re supposed to do as men. How men treat women is a signature of their character. Think of the character signatures” of Teddy Kennedy, Harvey Weinstein and Jeffry Epstein. The feminist thrust toward social atomization strips away the opportunity for men to be “men” in that best sense of the word. Men offer women what other women can’t, and when they do it right everyone is better off. Women at their best bring out the best in men. They, men, that is, are more inclined to behave themselves, to work harder, scrape off their rougher edges and be more dependable.  Which extends into other arenas of social life like being a good father, a reliable worker and a helpful neighbor.  Women get to have men around to be “the fathers” to the children that they cannot be, to share the burdens and joys of child-rearing and, together, ease the chastening of old age.

 

That’s “the good” to take away from “When mama ain’t happy.” How about “the bad”?  Was will das Weib? Yes, what does the woman want? Depends on the woman, Sig. And that brings me to something I call “the professionalization of unhappiness,” being unhappy as a full-time job, a career of making “my unhappiness with an imperfect world your fault. My job is to make you feel guilty and be unhappy about it and then abolish yourself.”  “A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.”  Remember that one? Thus, unhappiness all around – “Ain’t nobody happy” – unhappiness that never goes away and puts the “professionals” in charge who keep ordering us to go away.

 

We’ve arrived at “the ugly.” Hillary Clinton as the prototype, hectoring, professionally unhappy mama, her life dedicated to being the worst kind of woman imaginable and bringing out the worst in men – beginning close to home with her husband. To be fair to her: the man from Hope didn’t give her much in the way of “best” to work with. But then, each found in each other what the other was searching for.  George Gilder once remarked, “All politics is at one level sexual politics.”  The long, tawdry history of the Clinton’s “political marriage” opens a window into the pathologies rampant in our highly-sexualized modern politics.

Consider one of Hillary’s signature gestures of condescension and contempt that reaches back to the Presidential campaign of 1992 when this “power couple” was hoping to take their dueling banjos of avarice and ambition act to Washington DC. In a “60 Minutes” interview the devious duo was trying to spin their way out of Jennifer Flowers tattling on her long-term affair with Bill. Even as recently as the 1990s, American voters had some regard for marital fidelity. For the interview, Hillary was assigned to pull Bill’s, shall we say, “chestnuts” out of the fire. On the couch she was tucked up tight against Bubba, who was ploughing his fleshy face into “earnest” as only he could do. Accoutered in Kelly green with a black headband, Hillary was looking a little too much like a well-groomed Southern Baptist lady on her way back from the weekly church prayer meeting. She must have been worried that she might be mistaken by the viewers as a “traditional” wife, a help-mate who cared a lot about her husband, which was somewhat the direction in which the Clinton handlers were trying to point her. Bill and Hill were supposed to come off as a normal, wholesome, devoted-to-each-other married couple instead of the more accurate picture that was coming into focus – a philandering cad and serial sexual harasser with an insanely power-hungry harpy in tow.

She couldn’t fake it. “I’m not sitting here some little woman standing by my man like Tammy Wynette,” she snarked. Wynette’s “Stand by Your Man” was originally released in 1968.  It was the most successful single of her great career as a C&W singer. No doubt it was really popular in Arkansas, which must have greatly chafed at Hillary’s sense of “liberated” superiority. It was placed at number one on CMT's list of the Top 100 Country Music Songs.

No one could do the rocky shoals of troubled love and broken marriage like Tammy.

Our D-I-V-O-R-C-E becomes final today
Me and little J-O-E will be goin’ away
I love you both and this will be pure H-E double L for me
Oh, I wish that we could stop this D-I-V-O-R-C-E.”

Tammy, it is safe to say, had really gotten under Hillary’s self-righteous, man-hating skin. Unfortunately, “pure H-E double L” would soon be in the White House with years ahead of Hill making us “feel her pain.” Oh, I wish we could stop this H-I-D-E-O-U-S B-I-T-C-H.

Hillary made it clear in that interview. She was not “some little woman” standing by her man – certainly not that big, sweet-talking lug of a cheater sitting next to her with images of White House interns dancing in his head. Ok, but then this trash-talking from William Jefferson’s side kick left the viewers wondering: “if not ‘standing by her man,’ what the hell was she up to?”  Several weeks later she snapped at a reporter asking her about her role: “I suppose I could have stayed home and baked cookies and had teas.” Welcome to unfettered sarcastic, unhappy feminism. Even when it was politically expedient to dissimulate, this charmless Alinsky-ette struggled to suppress her contempt for that part of America that didn’t measure up to her expectations, one she hoped someday to put under her heel. Lacking Bill’s warmth and discipline – “the personality of an East German border guard” someone said of her. She just couldn’t keep her inner-termagant in check. Her intemperate and infamous “basket of deplorables” slur in her 2016 Presidential campaign gave Trump supporters a powerful rallying cry and cost her dearly.

That slur was delivered at the “LBGT for Hillary Gala” in New York City. “Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.” Or Arkansas. It is worth revisiting because it captures the essence of professionalized unhappiness on the hustings, its targets and what it portends.   

 

“You know, to just be grossly generalistic, you could put half of Trump’s supporters into what I call the basket of deplorables. Right? The racist, sexist, homophobic, xenophobic, Islamaphobic—you name it.”

 

Yes, we do “know.” We know how “grossly generalistic” worked when Hillary moved into character assassination mode employing those “inventions” of professional grievance-mongers – “racist,” “sexist” etc. – to remind everyone that she intended to rain down unhappiness upon us, the deplorables, and more – our obliteration.  “[T]hankfully they [us] are not America,’ she added. You don’t need high-level skills in the hermeneutics of violence-messaging to figure out what someone with Presidential power, who has that kind of resentment in mind, would be planning.

 

You name it” is not a throw away phrase. It is an open invitation for the insufficiently unhappy, the not-yet-initiated to find their inner-victimhood, give it “a voice” and get in the game. Aus Opertum erwächst Macht. From the resentment of shared victimhood comes power.

 

In her shocking loss to the Orange Man Hillary remained her vintage “Mama ain’t happy” self, blaming her loss on a phalanx of evil men.  That stupid bigot, Trump, who could never have outsmarted a savvy, seasoned politician such as herself, must have cheated. Comey, Putin and the deplorables sabotaged her coronation – so many men; so much blame and, ah yes, unhappiness. She never seemed to grasp that “Erich Honecker in drag” was not the ticket to a 48-state landslide victory.  

 

“I am woman hear me roar in numbers too big to ignore.”  We are now in the grip of professionally unhappy mamas, like Robin DiAngelo, et al “roaring” about “Whiteness” and “systemic racism.”  But here is the scariest part of “I am Woman,” an upchuck inducing screech that hit the top of the charts fifty years ago.

 

“You can bend but never break me
‘Cause it only serves to make me
More determined to achieve my final goal.”

 

We’re now staring down the gun barrel at that “final goal” and looking at Kamala Harris, fingers crossed, studying J. Robinette Biden and wondering how many more months before his medication fails to keep him minimally coherent.

 

When old white Joe is moved into the dementia unit at the Greeting El Diablo Retirement Village, and Kamala raises her hand and swears to “preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States,” think about Chief Dan George in the “The Outlaw Jose Wales”: “Get ready little lady, hell is coming to breakfast.”

 

Stephen Paul Foster's newly published novel

 Toward the Bad I Kept on Turning: A Confessional Novel

Tuesday, June 22, 2021

Preserving the “Faith” and the “Art” of Embalming

The debate on Lenin's body is Moscow's way of burying bad news | Andrew  Ryvkin | The Guardian

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MORE PINOCCHIOS: Joe Biden Caught Lying About His NAFTA Record | Donald J.  Trump for President   

Embalming fluid and American politics. The connection? I am thinking specifically of Joe “the Thing” Biden for reasons that are obvious or soon will be. But the starting point for the discussion should begin with Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, aka, Lenin.

 

Hard to believe, but that son of a gun has been dead for almost a century. He succumbed to a cerebral hemorrhage in 1924 at age 54. Harder yet to believe: he’s still around, ghoulishly speaking. Keeping him around, you may not know, isn’t cheap. From Culture Trip:

 

“In 2016, the Russian Federal Guard Service announced that the maintenance of Lenin’s remains had cost 13 million roubles (over £155,000/$210,000). This amount covered the costs of the ‘Lenin Lab’, a team of scientists that has been monitoring his body since his passing. During Soviet times, the Lenin Lab was comprised of 200 scientists. Although the team is much smaller now, the work remains much the same.” 

 

“The Lenin Lab”, “200 scientists”, “monitoring his body”? All of this gives the word “necrophilia” a whole new dimension, one that raises a lot of questions about the mentality of communism and the meaning of Lenin’s 97-year posthumous career. Post mortem meets postmodern.

 

But back to the beginning of the embalming saga circa 1924. Lenin’s widow, Nadezhda Krupskaya, was opposed to turning Lenin’s moldering corpse into a mummy, but Stalin was running the show by then. Being an Orthodox seminarian before he got hooked on dialectical materialism, he no doubt understood the power of relics, particularly over the minds of the Russian peasantry. Since the bulk of the population of the new Soviet state was made up of illiterate peasants, Stalin had to be thinking: “We need a ‘relic’ to keep this scam going.” The recently deceased Lenin was the closest thing the bungling, murderous Bolshevik leadership had to God, so Stalin made an astute calculation: “We’ll embalm God, our dear, departed Tovarishch, Vladimir Ilyich – he’s no good to us now as maggot chow. Better to make him look nice, and serviceable for worship – Communist style worship.” Mummies for the hoi polloi to trundle past and admire trump the feeble-minded abstractions of propaganda. “Look, Comrades: Lenin lives! He still loves you.” Well, in a “tough-love” Leninist cruel sort of way.

 

The delicious irony is that this atheist hater of any and all things religious, who devoted his life to serving the impersonal laws of history, was engorged with chemicals that turned him into an eternal, very personal object of religious veneration.

 

The mummy lives,” so to speak. Lenin would become the CPSU’s theatrical property used to enhance the drama of “the revolution” and animate the mythology of the “new Soviet man.” Instead of “What would Jesus do?” in moments of doubt or confusion, the Ivans in the socialist workers’ paradise would furrow their brows and ask, “What would Lenin do?”

 

 So “attached” were the Bolshie bosses to Lenin’s corpse that in the late summer of 1941, when they were in a stone panic with the German army closing in on Moscow, Lenin was crated up and shipped off for safe-keeping to the east at Tyumen, Siberia. What would Lenin do? He was telling Stalin: “When Hitler’s coming, it’s best to get out of Dodge.”

 

Then Stalin shuffled off his mortal coil in 1953, lingering a bit in a coma while his terrified henchmen dithered about calling for a doctor. Stalin didn’t trust doctors. He too was mummified and put next to Lenin in the Red Square mausoleum in Moscow.  But, that was a temporary stop for the Vozhd, the Boss. In 1961, he was removed from Red Square and buried about 300 feet from the mausoleum, near other minor leaders of the Revolution – no ceremonies, no official to-do. Why this remarkable demotion for “Lenin’s heir”?

 

Well, after Stalin’s death the Gulags were emptying out. The Russian people were asking the current Bolshevik leaders some uncomfortable questions: Who was responsible for putting millions of innocent people in those slave labor camps? Who was responsible for torturing and murdering so many loyal Communist party members during the purges of the 1930s? Who put that psychopath fiend, Beria in charge of state security?

 

Khrushchev and his buddies were now running the show. They had dispatched “Stalin’s Himmler,” Lavrenti Beria, shortly after the Boss had gone room temperature. Still, Stalin’s long-serving, faithful helpers, now in charge, were up to their elbows in innocent blood. But they were alive and hoping to stay that way, and Stalin was, well, dead. So, they threw Stalin, the mummy, under the bus or at least out of sight and hopefully out of mind. The 20th Party Congress in 1956 was when Khrushchev spilled the beans in a “secret speech” that sent shock waves around the communist world. From the text of Khrushchev’s speech:

 

“Stalin originated the concept ‘enemy of the people.’ This term automatically made it unnecessary that the ideological errors of a man or men engaged in a controversy be proven….  [H]e used extreme methods and mass repressions at a time when the Revolution was already victorious, when the Soviet state was strengthened, when the exploiting classes were already liquidated and socialist relations were rooted solidly in all phases of national economy, when our Party was politically consolidated and had strengthened itself both numerically and ideologically.”

 

Quick aside: “enemy of the people” and “automatically made it unnecessary that the ideological errors of a man or men engaged in a controversy be proven.”  Sounds remarkably like how “racist” works in Democrat run America.

 

Stalin was eventually to be evicted from his resting place next to Lenin after the speech. It took a few years, but here is the best part. On the day that preceded Khrushchev’s decree ordering the removal of Stalin’s remains from the mausoleum, Dora Abramovna Lazurkina, an ancient, hard core Bolshevik and party apparatchik stood up before the 22nd Party Congress and related what can only be one of the more bizarre and unique experiences of necromancy ever recorded. Keep in mind: this is a life-long communist channeling a plea from the Apostle of materialism and the scourge of afterlife, superstitious nonsense.

 

“Comrades, I could survive the most difficult moments only because I carried Lenin in my heart, and always consulted him on what to do. Yesterday I consulted him. He was standing there before me as if he were alive, and he said: ‘It is unpleasant to be next to Stalin, who did so much harm to the party.’”

 

If Dora was hearing Lenin correctly, we have to say that “unpleasant to be next to Stalin” could go down as the understatement of the century. Stalin had made his life’s work an exercise far exceeding “unpleasant” for, just to pick a round number and just one his many benevolent gestures, three million Ukrainian peasants whose grain he stole and then let them starve to death. Many of his closest, Bolshevik associates would have been happy with “unpleasant.” Instead they got “lethal”. Trotsky, Bukharin, Radek and Zinoviev immediately come to mind.

  

To continue, however, with the embalming of communist dictators: First Lenin, then Stalin, then Mao. Dead at last, it was the turn of the Asian moon face genius with a big mole on his chin. Mummification was becoming the capstone of a career as a Communist dictator. Mao’s wish was to be cremated, but as it was with Lenin, his party comrades needed him in a primitive religious sort of way.

 

Thirty some years after the Great Oarsman’s installation in the Mausoleum of Mao Zedong in Beijing, I waited in a long line in Tiananmen Square to be admitted for a glimpse of the slumbering Mao. As one of the few Westerners among the large horde of Chinese, I stood out and was soon accosted by a plain clothes security officer who in precise, intimidating English warned me that attempting a snapshot of the “Chairman” would not be in my best interest. I had wisely left my mobile phone in my hotel room. It would have been confiscated had I brought it with me. Inside the hall festooned with elaborate flowers arrangements, I was struck by the intensity of superstitious, reverent awe for an object that looked like a giant pink doll. The grey-green Mao suit was the closest thing I saw to what must have been the real Mao.

 

A short time later I was in Hanoi and found myself shuffling through a dimly lit chamber preparing to catch a glimpse of Ho Chi Minh. Like Mao, he was Mao-suited and peacefully slumbering in his glass box, aglow under soft-lighting, guarded by four young soldiers at stiff attention. I had hoped to experience a minor miracle – vision corrected back to 20-20 or some arthritis relief. Instead, I developed a terrible cold shortly after the visit.

 

I was never brave enough to attempt the Democratic People’s Republic of North Korea. For more adventuresome souls, Kim Ill Sung (“our Fatherly Leader” as he was affectionately called by his hungry and malnourished subjects) and his son Kim Jong Il can be observed in their post-respiratory careers as venerable mummies in the National Palace. Kim Junior, it was reported in the official obituary, made it through sixty-nine years without ever having to defecate. Should the North Korean people enjoy the beneficence of a long-lived Kim Jong Eun, a chubby-faced youth with many years ahead to enhance the paradise bequeathed by his elders, he will no doubt have performed many miracles of his own, maybe an even longer feces-free existence than his father. Perhaps someday the National Palace will host for the curious to behold a rosy communist Trinity: Father, Son, and Holy – well … expectations, no doubt, remain high for Kim III.

 

I could write an entire book on the mummification of Communist dictators, catalogued under the heading, now a micro-aggression,  “black humor.” But I want to get to Joe Biden and the rest of the Communist, I mean, the Democrat party leadership. The point is that the final stop on the trail of Communist ideologues and ideology is the embalming lab and mummification.

 

Up to this point I’ve been focusing on the mummification of the dead. What we are seeing now with our own ruling junta is the mummification of a political party, a gussied up ideological corpse, its better days a distant memory. What do the bosses believe? Whatever comes in handy at the moment. Yesterday, “A is B.” Today, “A is not-B.” Tomorrow, “B is really C.” In charge are people who, to put it crudely, struggle to distinguish shit from Shinola. Their intellects are mummified as evidenced by culling their public utterances only to find outbursts of sputtering incoherence, insulting asides of condescension or anodyne PR talking points massaged by the hacks on the staff. None of what they say is, mildly interesting, memorable or remotely believable.

 

Think of really old people whose brain temperatures are approaching absolute zero Yes, these are really old people calling the shots. It should be acutely embarrassing. Senator, Diane Feinstein, 87 and filing for reelection, House Majority Leader Steny Hoyer, 82, House Rep, Maxine Waters, 82, Speaker of the House, Nancy Pelosi, 81, Senator Patrick Leahy, President Pro tempore, 81, House Majority whip James Clyburn, , 80, Senate Whip, Dick Durbin, 76, Senate Majority Leader, Chuck Shumer,70.

 

Don’t forget top competitors for the prize of Democrat Presidential nominee:  Bernie Sanders, 79, Elizabeth Warren, 71. Anthony Fauci, Public Health Dictator is 80.  The average age for this entire crew = 79.

 

So, just how much senescence and decrepitude are we really looking at in our ruling class? How much is too much?

 

Which takes us to us to our 78-year-old POTUS, Joseph Robinette Biden and the current speculation about the candle power of his intellect.

 

Here for consideration is some of that “power” at work from his remarks at the 2021 Virtual Munich Security Conference.

 

“We can own the race for the future.  But to do so, we have to be clear-eyed about the historic investments and partnerships that this will require.  We have to protect — we have to protect for space for innovation, for intellectual property, and the creative genius that thrives with the free exchange of ideas in open, democratic societies.”

 

Yes, “the Mummy lives,” and it talks like a random word generator programmed by a White House intern rummaging through a DNC style manual. This is about as lucid as J. Robinette gets. “T]he race for the future”?  No, Comrades, we’re looking at a race into the past. In any case, it’s a “race” led by a bunch of octogenarians who have spent their lives enriching themselves at the public trough while pretending to be “public servants.” You have to wonder: were any of the other participants in this “security” conference actually listening to this babbling brook of inanities. And if they were, what were they thinking? “My God, who is in charge of adjusting his medication? Maybe a body-double is in order.” 

 

So here we are: the country is ruled by antique party kleptocrats, guided by a worn-out ideology with a court-jester Commander and Chief who, apart from his party handlers and a fawning MSM, is a laughing stock for the rest of the world.

 

Consider, if you will, how much this mummified ruling party resembles one that sputtered itself into oblivion several decades ago – the CPSU. Like Joe, Nancy and Maxine, the Soviet leadership, sunken in nepotism and corruption, didn’t believe in anything other than its entitlement to power. Nobody anymore including the people at the top took the “Marx,” “equality” and the “Revolution” crapola seriously. The “new Soviet man” had become a weary cynic. His resentment over long lines, empty store shelves and life in a cramped, crappy apartment drove him to consolation with large quantities of cheap vodka.

 

“What’s the next stage after socialism? Alcoholism” was a popular Brezhnev-era joke.

 

 The relatively youthful Mikhail Gorbachev who, unable to revive the CPSU corpse, was left to preside over the collapse of the house that Lenin built. He was immediately proceeded by three aged, party time-servers, who while still alive appeared to be half dead: Leonid Brezhnev, Yuri Andropov and Konstantin Chernenko – 76, 80 and 84, respectively, their ages at death.

 

The cynicism so conspicuous in the final days of the Soviet Union marked the default of the ruling ideology with its venal, corrupted leadership. It signaled the moral collapse of a society whose members no longer possessed any enduring principles and defensible ideas around which to organize and make sense of their daily lives. Sound familiar?

 

So, think of President Biden as our Brezhnev or maybe Chernenko. Is our Gorbachev somewhere out there waiting? None of the likely candidates are remotely in Gorbachev’s league. I think we are well into the endgame.

 

Postscript.

 

Two other related embalming-of-dictator items I must mention. Shortly before Maximum Lider, Fidel expired in Havana in 2016, I had predicted that he would, like Lenin and Mao be preserved for worship by the faithful. I was wrong. I guess, he was more of a Marxist than I thought.

 

Let’s not forget the wife of a dictator, Evita Perón. Shortly before her death from cervical cancer at age 33, Hubby Juan summoned the Spaniard, physician-embalmer, Pedro Ara to get a head start on her “preservation,” for which it is rumored Perón paid him $100,000 dollars, a considerable sum in 1953. Ara, who had earlier embalmed the Spanish composer, Manuel de Falla to make him presentable to General Franco, did a magnificent job on Evita. Shortly after, the former First Lady went off in exile with Juan for a twenty-year posthumous adventure that took her to Italy, Spain, and back to Argentina where she needed a bit of repair work. She finally was put to rest in Buenos Aires’ mausoleum village known as the Recoleta cemetery. The bizarre details of her afterlife adventures as are recounted by Tomás Eloy Martínez in his historical novel, Santa Evita. I highly recommend it.

 

 Stephen Paul Foster's newly published novel

 

 

 Toward the Bad I Kept on Turning: A Confessional Novel

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tuesday, June 1, 2021

The Dawning of Kamalot: a Short Play in One Act


 

 

 Elizabeth Warren left behind, VP prize goes to Kamala Harris: Howie Carr

 

The Cast:

 

President Joseph Biden (PJB)

First Lady, Jill Biden (JB)

Vice President, Kamala Harris (KH)

 

 

 Scene One 

Sometime in the Fall of 2021

Bedroom, Executive Residence, White House

The President is being awakened from his afternoon nap by his wife, Jill

 

 

(JB). Did you have a good nap, Honey?

(PJB). Oh, yes. I’m feeling energized and ready for my afternoon meeting with President Obama.

(JB). Joe, you are the President now.

(PJB). I am? Oh, my God. Did something happen to Barack while I was napping?

(JB). No. He’s fine.

PJB). Thank God. I like that boy. Anyway, I had this nightmare that Donald Trump was President.

(JB). It wasn’t a nightmare, Joe. Trump was President. You defeated him in last November’s election.

(PJB). I bet it was it a landslide. I probably got forty-nine states like Mondale did against Reagan.

(JB). That was the other way around Joe. Your election was, well, almost a landslide.

Jill hands him his afternoon medication (Ritalin) and a glass of water

(JB). Here, take this. It will help you get started this afternoon. You have a busy schedule.

The President takes the med

(PJB). What is this stuff, anyway? Tastes good.

(JB). Just a vitamin supplement and a bit of caffeine.

(PJB). Well, thank you, Dear. I don’t know where I’d be without out you.

(JB). (Whispering): In the Crazy Horse Retirement Village.  

(JB). We need to get going.  You have a very important meeting in five minutes with Kamala Harris.

(PJB). Pamela Harris. Do I know her?

(JB). Kamala Harris, Joe. She’s your Vice President.

(PJB). Oh yes, of course.  She’s black, right? I promised a black woman for VP.

(JB). Yes, she’s black.

(PJB). Why is her name “Kamala” then instead of “Pamela”?

(JB). She’s Indian.

(PJB). I thought you said she was black.

(JB). She’s both.

(PJB). Now, I’m confused.

(JB). We need to get to the meeting. Chop, Chop, Joe.

 

        

Scene Two

 

Oval Office

Joe and Jill Biden are awaiting the arrival of the Vice President

Enter Kamala Harris.

 

(KH). Good afternoon, Mr. President.

(PJB). Good afternoon Pamela. I must say, you’re looking very “hot” this afternoon. You look like you could use a shoulder massage?

 President Biden moves toward the Vice President preparing to grasp her shoulders

(JB). Joe, the Vice President has a very serious matter to take up with you.

           The President shrugs and moves back next to Jill Biden

(PJB). Ok, shoot, little lady.

A startled Kamala recovers and smiles

(KH). Thank you, Mr. President. May I call you Joe?

(PJB). You can call me Joe. You can call me Moe. You can call me Curly.  Just don’t call me Larry.

Kamala looks bewildered.

(PJB). That’s was a joke, Pamela.

Kamala remains bewildered

(JB) to (KH). The Three Stooges. It’s his favorite.

(KH) to (JB). Were they white males?

(JB). Yes.

(KH). Figures.

Kamala with forced laughter

(KH). Yes, very funny, Joe. You have great sense of humor.

(PJB). Which one was your favorite? I like Moe – rhymes with Joe.

(KH). I like them all equally.

(PJB). Why does that not surprise me? What can I do for you Pamela?

(KH) As you know, for the last nine months in my role as Vice President I have enjoyed extraordinary success, more so than any of the males in history who have occupied that office.

(PJB). Wait. I think I was Vice President. What about me?

(KH). What exactly did you do?

(PJB). I invented the internet.

(KH). That was Al Gore.

(PJB). I put an end to systemic racism.

(KH). It’s worse than ever.

(PJB). I wrote the Obama Care legislation.

(KH). That was Nancy and Harry.

(PJB). I was champion for the transgendered gang

(KH). You and every other Democrat, Joe. 

The President looks irritated

(PJB). Call me Mr. President.

(KH). Yes Mr. President.

(PJB). So, what’s on your mind, Pamela?

(KH). Given my success, I believe I am ready for the next step.

(PJB). The next step?

(KH). Yes, Mr. President.

(PJB). And what would that be?

Kamala and Jill exchange knowing looks.

(KH). That would be the Presidency, Sir. The first black female President.

The President looks at his wife then back at Kamala.

(PJB). But, I thought that I was – am – President. I’m confused.

Jill puts her hand on the President’s knee.

(JB). Well, yes, dear. You are confused, and that is why we are having this meeting. Which why Kamala and I have decided that it would be best for you to hand the reins over to her, so to speak, and let her carry out all the wonderful initiatives I – I mean, you – have begun. You’ve done so much for this country. Now, you deserve to relax and receive the gratitude of the American people for your service, and, of course, those nice people in Ukraine whom Hunter helped so much.

(PJB). Well, ok Sis. It hasn’t been all that much fun, anyway. Hey, Pamela, good luck. Don’t let those lying, dog-faced pony soldiers get you down.

 

 Is it too late to catch an episode of Gilligan’s Island?

  

Stephen Paul Foster's newly published novel

Toward the Bad I Kept on Turning: A Confessional Novel

 

 

 

 

Friday, May 7, 2021

Nicole Brown Simpson or George Floyd -- Monumental Differences

 

 Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman Were Murdered 25 Years Ago | PEOPLE.com

 

 Timeline: The impact of George Floyd's death in Minneapolis and beyond -  ABC News

 

 If you are contemplating a pilgrimage to the George Floyd memorial site and wondering what kind of protective body armor you should wear, consider this from CNN: “Locals wanted it [at the intersection of Chicago Avenue and 38th  Street in Minneapolis] to be a place of peace, justice,   mourning and healing. There is a greenhouse growing plants for the memorial to Floyd and caretakers who make sure the area they now call George Floyd Square is clean.”

 

That’s the upside in a report from the “news” source we can trust to keep us informed about the ongoing deification of a guy who was a practitioner of home invasions before “systemic racism” tragically ended his career.

 

Here’s the downside for the “peace” hopefuls tempted by the allure of “George Floyd Square.” “But the neighborhood is still dealing with old wounds, new conflicts and fresh violence, even as attention on them is renewed with the beginning of the murder trial for the man accused of killing Floyd.” This CNN story was released shortly before the railroading of Derrick Chauvin was concluded.

 

“New conflicts,” you ask?  Body armor? Well… “Just last weekend a man was shot to death not far from the spot where Floyd once laid motionless. Police did not respond to CNN’s request for comment, but a spokesman told USA Today they faced interference when trying to come into the square that Saturday night. Residents choose when to move the metal gate that completes the street barricade, and this time it was them who took the victim to the hospital before police arrived.”

 

So much for the whole “peace, justice, mourning and healing” shootin’ match. Something tells me that none of these are in the cards for the future of this piece of hallowed ground. They’ll have to settle for “clean.”  The “fresh violence,” shockingly, was clearly not the doing of Minneapolis policemen, so you might wonder who is doing it to whom. But since CNN reporters typically go mum about race when violence is black on black – Black lives as they “matter” on the discount rack – you can draw the obvious conclusion about the ethnicities of the shooter and the victim. Here is another clue from the plucky CNN reporter: Gang warfare is prevalent here, dating back long before Floyd died.” Expect CNN and AP soon to drop racist dog whistle “gang” from their style books to be replaced by “urban freedom fighters associations.”

 

Meanwhile, what about the “fresh violence”? Well, Congresswoman extraordinaire, eighty-two-year-old Maxine Waters in the throes of dementia, somehow wandered her way from California into Minnesota. There she took the occasion to threaten the Chauvin-trial jurors who were in deliberation and to incite the rioters-in-waiting. She was immediately arrested and charged with multiple felonies. No, wait. That used to happen here back when the rule of law was still intact and regular law enforcement was not regarded as “racist.” Upon arrival in Minneapolis this government-funded, one-woman, traveling carnival act demanded an armed police escort to a BLM rally where upon she then raged against the police.

 

All the best to future of the George Floyd memorial and the efforts of caretakers to keep it “clean.”

 

That said, however, there is another memorial that is long overdue to be erected: “The Nichole Brown Simpson--Ron Goldman Memorial (NBS-RG Memorial).” Dedicated to victims of racially motivated miscarriages of justice, this memorial would eschew the “peace, mourning and healing” crapola that the social justice warriors use to disguise their own projects of grievance mongering and racial animosity in order to make it sound like anything other than what it is, a casus belli.

 

No? The headline of the CNN story declares the location of the George Floyd memorial to be a “sacred place and a battleground.” (italics added). Yes, “battleground,” I think, predicts what we are looking at, and not just for this “sacred place” but for the whole of once safe and peaceful Minneapolis where violent crime rates have sky-rocketed in the last year – committed most likely by urban freedom fighters.  As Ann Coulter put it, “murders in honor of George Floyd.” Embedded in the CNN story: “Sam Willis Jr., a business owner in the neighborhood [of the George Floyd memorial] told CNN affiliate WCCO, ‘People don’t feel safe, they are selling their homes, they hear gunshots, they know the police are not coming into the neighborhood.’” Here is an incontrovertible statement of cause and effect. Its truth plays no part in policy deliberations by woke whites for the future safety and well-being of Minneapolis residents.

 

The NSB-RG Memorial, it is important to note, would be neither a sacred place nor a battle ground. Its purpose would be to acknowledge the real murderer of Ms Brown and Mr. Goldman and call attention to the poisoned racial motivations and conduct that led to the colossal abortion of a trial that released O. J. Simpson to the public. It would revisit this shameful national spectacle and become a site of interactive learning with Johnnie Cochran impersonators doing seminars to dramatize the techniques of race pandering and jury nullification. It would also feature galleries with photos of the bloodstained crime scene, O. J. trying on the gloves and video clips of the O. J. white Bronco-Police caravan. The circus courtroom antics would get special attention, for example, Cochran’s comparison of the police detective who found the bloody glove to Adolf Hitler. The jury that freed Simpson would be an object of scrutiny and an opportunity for reflection, perhaps even for mourning. “The usually dapper jury came to court [for the announcement of the verdict] in uncharacterisotically casual clothes. One black man smiled at the defense team as he entered the courtroom.” The smile of racial revenge, I am thinking. Post-verdict comments would be highlighted such as Cochrans pious-sounding denial that he had played the race card during the trial.  Erected would be a gold framed plaque of O. J.’s promise after his acquittal to track down the “real” killer of Ms Brown and Mr. Goldman.

 

 “My first obligation is to my young children, who will be raised the way that Nicole and I had always planned. … But when things have settled a bit, I will pursue as my primary goal in life the killer or killers who slaughtered Nicole and Mr. Goldman. They are out there somewhere. Whatever it takes to identify them and bring them in, I will provide somehow.”

 

Yes, “somehow”. After his acquittal O. J. was in hot pursuit of the “real” killers until he got sidetracked launching his own “home invasion” – well, the armed invasion of a hotel room, where at gun point he robbed the occupant. Ten years later he slithered out of prison and presumably is still pursuing his “primary goal in life.” 

 

The NBS-RG Memorial would also feature videos of the wildly jubilant black response to the announcement of the jury’s not-guilty verdict. “Who cares if he did it? The white bitch and her Jew boyfriend had it coming”, I think, was the message the jurors were sending.  O. J. had merely struck a blow at “white privilege.”

 

“As Gil Garcetti, Marcia Clark, and Chris Darden sit together processing the acquittal and preparing to face the press, they can hear the cheers in the background. Later, Clark expresses her disbelief to Darden that, ‘People are celebrating [Simpson], celebrating the verdict.’ And, regardless of your own opinion of the verdict, it’s certainly jarring to hear and see such wild celebrations when the victims’ families are clearly in incredible pain.”

 

Got that? “Wild celebrations,” just like after the announcement of the Derrick Chauvin verdict. Is it fair to surmise that the jubilant, triumphal reaction to certain jury verdicts – Simpson, not-guilty; Chauvin, guilty – on the part of American blacks could be a primitive ritual that is racially motivated and energized with a large heaping of anti-white animosity?

 

On the other side. When verdicts meet their disapproval, black folks riot – as in South Central LA after four LAPD officers accused of beating Rodney King were acquitted by jury. So productive is rioting – sorry, “mostly peaceful protesting” – BLM now just threatens it, and, as we saw in Minneapolis last month – it works. No mostly peaceful protesting, by the way, by whites followed the grotesque perversion of justice with the Simpson verdict.

 

Following that verdict was triumphalism in spades, so to speak. A.C. Cowlings, Simpson’s buddy who led police on the surreal slow-speed chase in the white Bronco viewed by millions “was at the door to embrace Simpson when he arrived home an hour after the verdicts were read. Later, family members gathered for a champagne party on the lawn of Simpson’s lush estate. Florists, caterers and musicians pulled up to the house and told reporters they were there for a celebration.”

 

It’s been almost twenty-seven years since black O.J. Simpson savagely murdered his white ex-wife and her Jewish companion. Time for their memorial is long past due. Of course, we know that it will never happen. The conclusion to the Derrick Chauvin show trial is a signal that the criminal justice system is now a “criminal-run system,” the polluted backwash of systemic corruption by the white-enabling ruling class of black grievance professionals. BLM’s controlled opposition – aka the Congressional Republicans – according to PBS expressed “relief” at the verdict. What else would you have expected of these extravagantly cosseted, high placed betrayers? They have sowed the wind. When you observe the unfettered BLM in action you know the world wind is upon us.