Too Sad to Consider

It’s been several months since I added more ramblings, flatulence or blather. Watching, however obliquely, what has passed for a political campaign…was too sad for me to consider. Two incontrovertable truths: Hillary Clinton is the waddling epitome of everything I believe is wrong with the Democratic Party. Donald Trump is the waddling, groping, whining, snarling epitome of everything I believe is wrong with humankind.

People, this election cycle was not a choice; it was a threat. I repeated almost endlessly during the past few months that I had no idea who would win the 2016 US presidential election but I had no doubt who the loser would be. Us. To trot out one of my favorite (slightly paraphrased, no offense to Walt Kelly) observations, We have met the loser and he is us.

It’s still much too soon–and much too painful, particularly seeing the absolute morons who will surround sTrumpet in Washington–to add anything. I’ve sworn off reading media for the time being as part of my mental health program.

So, as Sister Placebo–my favorite clergyperson–said after a few months of not bathing or washing her clothing, “Just to please the Lord I’ll change my habits…”

A Viable Alternate to Trump’s Wall

Donald Trump, the Grand Old Party’s 2016 Presidential nominee, steadfastly defends his determination to build a wall between the US and Mexico…but wait, people…there IS a viable alternative to consider. No, not a nuclear device nor a laser eradicator tuned to the frequency of people from south of the border, though Trump would likely consider such a suggestion.

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First, lets do a quick examination of the putative wall. Yeah, that’s a map of the southern border between the US and Mexico. Land mileage–after all, the wall will be built on the ground, is somewhere between 1300 and 1500 miles, give or take a few measly thousand feet here ‘n there. Look closely at the lower right hand corner of Arizona. There’s a little town called Naco shown on both sides of the border line. Why both sides? ‘Cause Naco is a pimple on a horny toads ass plopped right on the border extending across on both sides.

I live about six miles north of Naco, Arizona. I’ve walked every street in Naco, Arizona, with a handheld GPS. You paid me to do it, too. (I did geo mapping for the 2010 US Census, one of my assignments was Naco.) I know this country along the southern border of the US. I’ve hiked, bicycled, motorcycled, driven cars and flown an airplane along probably every dry, dusty and usually deserted mile of the border between San Diego, California, and Brownsville, Texas.

People, this is not flatland just waiting for a backhoe to dig a trench. Mountains, valleys, billions of rocks…and an amazing amount of flora and fauna to be destroyed whilst digging and blowing up the border, not that any of that would bother The Donald.

How much would this fantasy cost (just in construction dollars, not ancillary damage to the environment)? Guesses have ranged from a few hundred billion dollars to well over a trillion, not to include the cost of on-going maintenance and surveillance to keep intruders from blowing up, knocking down or crawling over the wall.

What about an alternative? Should the two-headed hydra known as Hillary and Billary suggest it or will they leave the idea up to The Donald and his partner, the Que-Tip Batboy, Pants Pence?

What about single-payer, covers every US Citizen from birth to death: Universal Health Care? Hmmm? Would health care cost more than the great wall of the west? If the rest of the industrialized west is an indication, no it wouldn’t.

OK, people. Which one would you prefer?

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.