Donald Trump Sings: “I Am the Way!”

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Remember Jonathan Loudon Wainwright III singing “I am the Way…” as he licked his lips lasciviously and leered at the audience? (I do, heard him play in Atlanta back in the ’70s). Not quite the same image as Donald Trump projected while quoting from his recently created stone tablets at the 2016 GOP Burning Bush Convention but certainly the lasciviousness was there and Wainwright’s lyrics would have been perfect with just a nip and a tuck. (Credit the Japan Times for the above image…)

With apologies to Mr. Wainwright for my gratuitous changes to his delightful song, without further ado, Here’s Donny! warbling his heart and soul out (as if he had a heart or a soul):

I was standing down in Cleveland Town one day
I was standing down in Cleveland Town one day
I was standing down in Cleveland Town one day

singing… I am the way

I can walk on the water and I can raise the dead
I can walk on the water and I can raise the dead
I can walk on the water and I can raise the dead
it’s easy…. I’m the way

(spoken: this song has a romantic part to it)

Don’t tell nobody but I kissed Magdalene
don’t tell nobody but I kissed Magdalene
don’t tell nobody but I kissed Magdalene
right on the mouth
I said Mary it’s okay I’m the way

(spoken: this is the pitiful part, especially come election day)

Every self-professed god gets a little hard luck sometimes
Every self-professed god gets a little hard luck sometimes
Every self-professed god gets a little hard luck sometimes
specially when he goes around saying he’s the way

I am the way
I am the way
I’m the way

Trump

Trump. That one word, a truncated German surname applied to the most ill-advised choice for a US Presidential candidate–not just of a major political party but of any group outside of NAMBLA, the KKK or the Nazis and maybe not even them–has morphed from ridiculous to frightening. I admit to not watching the Republican convention, not even a single minute, not even sound clips on CNN. My stomach won’t take the stress.

Where do I get my information? I do read, slowly, haltingly, but not just from what Sarah Palin refers to as lame-stream media. If only a portion of what I’ve perused is even partially correct, the GOP of 2016 has chosen to attempt ripping pages off the calendar, winding the clock back to…when? 1916? Back when men were men, sheep were nervous, lippy minorities learned their lessons at the end of a rope and uppity women were knocked to their knees time and time again until they begged for more.

The world doesn’t work that way. At least I fervently hope it doesn’t.

Four years ago, eight years ago, I was able to laugh at the strange characters who expressed a desire to be President of the United States. Mitt Romney? Didn’t care for guys who strap a dog carrier on the roof (dog inside) for a vacation trip but in retrospect, he wasn’t bad. McCain? Not much to my taste but I’d take him in a second compared to what Trump represents. In 2016, laughter is choked off in my throat and tears fill my eyes when I think of Trump representing a major political party from the country where I am a citizen.

Forty-two years ago give a few days, I eyed a monitor at WDTB-TV, Channel 13, the NBC affiliate in Panama City, Florida, of the day, and watched as Richard Nixon resignedly resigned. In my mind, on that night and for four decades to come, Nixon represented everything that could go wrong with the political system all bundled into one ball of knotted hatred.

Now, Trump is being compared to Nixon in favorable terms for both he and the long dead former President.

The return of Richard Milhous Nixon, picture a ghoulish figure stumbling from the grave with arms extended and musty dirt clods dropping off rotted clothing, groping for a victim like a bit part player from Night of the Living Dead, would be vastly preferable to watching the approach of Donald Trump.

 

Speaker Ryan’s Advice to Putative GOP Presidential Nominee Trump

Speaker of the House Ryan has confronted Donald Trump with the realities of the putative GOP Presidential nominee’s racist, sexist, misogynist rants. “Don, bae,” Ryan begins, a snarky smile stamped on his visage, “Every time you use the N word, every time you publicly refer to women as cunts, Mexicans as beaners or spics, Jews as Kikes, Muslims as sand negroes,or intellectuals and media liberals as fucking hippy fags, you offend the great unwashed and unemployed known as Democrats and get them riled up enough to vote. Reality is, if these assholes manage to mark a ballot and send it in, they’re gonna vote against US . I mean, dude, it’s fine to call a spade a spade or a faggot a faggot when you’re talking to your wives and children or to either of your friends but you can’t do it in public, not without repercussions.”

Donald mulls over Ryan’s comments for a moment then says, “Well, I appreciate your advice but, frankly, fuck ’em all. It’s that simple.”

Ryan shakes his head. “Donald, bae,” (Editorial Observation: Don’t your just hate the term bae? It’s a word I could easily imagine Ryan or Trump uttering because they think it drapes them with cool, almost as if they were buds of Kayne West or Kim Kartrashian.) you gotta get elected first. Once you’ve clawed your way onto the throne, sentenced Hillary, Billary and the rest of the Klinton Klan to life behind bars and have the national scepter, whip and handgun firmly in your slimy paws, you can call the assholes who were foolish enough to go on record against you anything you want. But first you gotta get elected.”

Trump’s beady, porcine eyes are agleam and drops of moisture are flowing from his flared nostrils. “Maybe, just maybe, you have a point.”

Ryan nods. “It works for me, bae.”

Guaranteed: The Worst President Ever

Richard Nixon, James Buchanan and Warren G Harding are sitting around a table in hell discussing how to replace themselves with guaranteed: the worst President ever. They had bet with one another on which new President would supplant them at the bottom of the heap. Buchanan had already used his pick to no avail. So had Warren Harding.

Buchanan: How could I have missed? A womanizer, a prevaricator and a draft dodger all rolled into one. I mean, shit, the man was so bad he was impeached. How could he not have been rated the worst President ever?

Harding:  What about my man, W? Never made a decent decision in his life. Skipped out on his National Guard responsibilities. Got the fucking country into a war that never should have happened, a war that’s still bankrupting the nation.

Nixon: It’s all a matter of timing. I can guarantee: 2016 will result in the worst President ever. Look at the choices. Hillary on one side, Trump on the other. Even the backup selections would be a safe bet for worst President ever.

Buchanan (glumly): I think you’re a dick, Dick, but likely you’ll win this bet.

Harding (with a trace of a smile): Yeah, the dick will win, but that doesn’t really matter. At least one of us won’t be the worst President ever.

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Nixon (his lips pulled down into a grimace): It’s about time, isn’t it? And you assholes thought I was crazy for not picking Obama for the honors.

Clinton vs. Sanders vs. McCarthy

16-02-28-cleangeneHilary Clinton just whupped Bernie Sanders in South Carolina, bringing back memories of Gene McCarthy in 1968, a man who roused support of the young and hopeful who saw their hopes dashed against the rocky coastline of money and entrenched power. Reaction of the disappointed: many of them didn’t vote at all, many stayed stoned for years to come, disavowing all interest in the flawed political process.

My memories may be cobwebbed and dusty but I think Clean Gene was a better man than either of the current aspirants to the Democratic presidential nomination. Admission: I didn’t feel that way back in ’68. In fact, all I wanted those many years in the past was to hang my army uniform on a hook and become a civilian again. I stayed stoned for years to come because I liked staying stoned.

My own political hopes of 1968? That the US would rinse away memories of Lyndon Johnson with a stiff shot of scotch and get on with being America, a land where the rich became richer, the poor became ever more poor and the guys in the middle received the mushroom treatment. (You know, kept in the dark and covered with shit…) Little did I realize the changes to come would be even worse that what I expected at the time and my expectations weren’t high.

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So, now we have the Berner realizing that a man in his mid-70s who made his mark as a self-described Democratic Socialist would have about as much possibility of unseating the Queen of Mean as I do of getting in Britney Spear’s pants. (Note: I’m old and hefty–not as old as Bernie nor as hefty as Hilary–but Britney’s pants still wouldn’t fit me.) Money speaks in a deep, mellifluous voice; bullshit yells through an amplified bullhorn and flies in an airplane labeled Trump; and hope walks barefoot over the burning coals.

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Yep, that’s the guy who will make us all shuck our shoes and tiptoe across the white-hot embers.

So, Hilary will assume the Democratic mantle, her smiling countenance peering from every available screen and surface while The Donald assumes the robe of assholiness that fits him so well and the rest of us are bent over the sawhorse of life where we shall be buggered until we learn to enjoy the sensation.

Below is an image of the putative First Lady (yeah, the old white-haired guy following two steps behind the putative President). Don’t that arouse pride in yer miserable chest, you puling, pukin’ piece of shit? (Note: image of Bill and Hill is by Matt Agudo. I hope he doesn’t mind if I borrow it. Image of Sanders and the McCarthy pin are both from Bing images. Trump and his bullhorn mouth is my modification of an Internet photo.)

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Dikka: the 2016 Presidential Hopeful Ailment

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Des Moines, an impoverished city on the plains of Iowa, is in the grip of a health nightmare after presidential hopefuls began showing up at debates exhibiting abnormally small and pointy heads, an ailment transmitted by excessive amounts of cash, arrogance and ego known to scientists as Dikka. The disease seems impervious to calls from the public to moderate insane utterances; it’s also oblivious to sex, race or political party.

Physicians queried about this condition refer to it as Dikka Head. Doctors say it’s been observed during past political campaigns but never to the degree exhibited in 2016. The only known cure for the ailment is absolute, total humiliation and loss of all respect and money. Even that anodyne is likely to prove ineffective considering the virulence of Dikka among this group. Fears include spread of the disease across the nation. Some scientists report outbreaks of Dikka Head in the upper ranks of corporate leadership and finance. It’s also been noticed in the widely publicized individuals known to the cognoscenti as celebrities.

The first recorded instances of Dikka were among religious icons and military leaders and it was talked about as much as four thousand years in the past.

Democratic U.S. presidential candidates (L-R) former Governor Martin O'Malley, former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton and U.S. Senator Bernie Sanders at the start at the NBC News - YouTube Democratic presidential candidates debate in Charleston, South Carolina January 17, 2016. REUTERS/Randall Hill  - RTX22T5B

Freedom’s Just Another Word for Do What I Want You to Do

Freedom, the freedom to post on Facebook, Twitter, You-Tube, Google +, etc., means no more than contributing your personal information (data about purchases, interests, fears, wants, etc…) in return for participating in an Internet exchange of mostly meaningless material. We all know–or we should all know–that this is the deal. Many of us, both young and old, continue to participate in the social mediums. Note: I don’t. If you do, great. I don’t choose to make this trade. I’m whored out enough by the information available in my credit reports, my VA and US Army records, my tax files, etc.

Where is this going? Father Obama, He in Washington–one of many in that sprawling mass of power, money and corruption–who sees a threat in private citizens owning, carrying and using firearms, has made clear his opinion.

Now those folks who choose to post on social media concerning their weapons based businesses, their participation in shooting sports and the techniques available for improving one’s shooting abilities are discovering that freedom to post on social media is being truncated. Sales and information postings are being rejected. Click here for more information on this change in social media standards.

Strange for a group of outlets that revel in standing up for the freedom to post veiled threats–and sometimes not so veiled threats–between husband and wife, bullying children, angry boys and girls, on and on; who revel in publicizing practices that many people find offensive, now want to shut the door on a legal activity because they don’t feel comfortable around…guns. Well, you can wall around town with your penis in your hand but don’t put your pistol in your belt.

Why don’t I post on social media?

Be Afraid, America

Be afraid, America, for behind every bush, light pole, corner, or in every shadow lurks a (Democrat, Republican, Liberal, Conservative, the foam-flecked lips of a gun nut, the lily-livered lips of a gun hater). You get the idea. Pick one, go after ’em or (in the case of lily-liver lipped liberals who like alliteration) run from them, heart pounding, as you poke 9-1-1 on your Apple I-Phone or your I-Pad or, for all I know, your Kotex pad if it’s that time of month.

Have we always been a nation of fearful haters?

Possibly. After all, the Puritans cowered together praying for their fierce and vengeful God to protect them and smite their enemies. Patriots warned that the red-coated slimy limeys were gonna take your musket. Abolitionists warned that the African-Americans would revolt and God (yeah, the fierce and vengeful One…) would fuck with us all for having been evil.

Hmmm.

I suppose this fear has always been the center of attention. Otherwise, religion and government might not have much to rail against.

War. War in Korea (well, a United Nations mandated police action) to keep the commies f’um taking over. War in Vietnam for much the same reason. War in Iraq to keep Saddam Hussein from bombing us with those weapons of mass deception destruction. War in Afghanistan to keep the Saudi Arabians from sending money to the crazies who want to kill us all. War in Iraq (war redux) to get the good feeling back that we had when Stormin’ Normin kicked the shit out of the Iraq army in 4 hours, 13 minutes and 12 seconds with our only casualty a mess hall full of GIs whacked by a Patriot missile whose guidance system detected a liberal inside that tent.

Maybe Donald Trump will save us.

Maybe Donald Trump will ponder to our fears.

We have much to fear if The Donald gets nominated.

For that matter, we have much to fear if Hillary, Burnie, Ted, Carly or any of the others get elected, too.

Oh, shit. We DO have reasons to fear. Say it, Pogo: We have met the enemy and he is us.

Have You No Sense of Decency, Mrs. Clinton?

I found myself making a connection between former US Secretary of State Hillary Clinton and the famed line uttered by Joseph N. Welch, chief counsel for the United States Army during the Army-McCarthy hearings in 1954. Welch famously asked Senator McCarthy, “Have you no sense of decency, sir? At long last, have you no sense of decency left?”

When will someone please ask that question of Mrs. Clinton? Has she no decency remaining? What can she possibly answer? Is she willing to force the Democratic Party to accept her as its nominee for the office of President of the United States when she’s manifestly unfit for the nomination and unable to be elected? Will she give the voting public no choice but to vote for whatever moron the Republican Party nominates or to not vote at all?

Surely Mrs. Clinton knows–somewhere in that mendacious head of hers there must be a gleam of reality–that she can’t possibly be elected. Is her ego so overwhelming that she would leave the United States with no viable choice for President rather than bow out graciously (or even ungraciously)?

Mrs. Clinton was asked in Iowa whether the email server she used (illegally) during her time as US Secretary of State had been wiped before turning it over to an IT company. She blinked her eyes then replied, “Wiped? Like with a cloth? I don’t know what those terms mean…” One more lie in the endless line of family untruthfulness.

At least Bill grinned when he testified that he hadn’t had sex with that woman. Of course everyone knew he was lying but the joke was between us all. Hillary doesn’t know how to joke or grin.

Trump: Trompe L’oeil

Is Donald Trump real or is he a modern media paradigm of trompe l’oeil?

We–I–do have to ask if it’s time for a pinch, particularly after reading that “The Donald” spoke ill of that icon of American politics, Senator John McLame. The Arizona senator isn’t a favorite of mine either, but not because of having been captured by the North Vietnamese, that likely wasn’t McCain’s choice. Sarah Palin was and she’s still with us, largely thanks to McLame and his need for a distraction as his running mate. Had Trump used “The Sarah” as a reason to diss McLame, I think he’d have heard cheers instead of criticism.

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However, we know Trump is trompe l’oeil, a  visual deception that makes the viewer think he’s seeing reality. In the representation above, our eyes are drawn to the center of Trump’s character, his mouth. Tiny eyes, after all, he doesn’t need to see; tiny ears, like the monkey in a cliché trilogy, he doesn’t need to hear. The Donald speaks whatever he thinks will call attention to himself. Shall we imagine what Trump might say were he to discuss…gay marriage? “Gay marriage? Never, should still be illegal, particularly if the happy couple intends to copulate. I tried anal sex in my younger days, my ass was so sore I couldn’t sit down for a week.”

Thank you, Donald.