Burn Me Twice, Shame on Me

capitolChildren possess an innate knack for learning to avoid harm, like a toddler venturing a curious hand onto a hot stove top .  Sure, bawling and wailing ensue, but a light has been clicked on inside that tiny brain: don’t touch the stove top .

But along the way some of those toddlers shed caution and grow into Republicans who wander aimlessly around Washington with both hands heavily bandaged.  Given the recent and significant election victories one would think the GOP would fastidiously shrink away from any flame resembling the 2013 government closure, yet here they are thrusting both hands into a searing Homeland Security shutdown.

Republicans, no doubt, do have moral propriety on their side: Obama and his functionaries constitute a pernicious cabal intent on harming America through what they deem “progress”.  But working against Republicans are Democrats as underhanded as Nurse Ratched and a national media as cordial to the GOP as Sweeney Todd to Londoners.  With large swaths of the American electorate going uninformed and casting ballots based on gossip, Tweets, and comedy shows, and anticipating the story arising from defunding DHS will focus on the shutdown itself vice Obama’s instigating behavior, the resultant media firestorm will incinerate many of the bridges Republicans built last November.

The stark reality is that Republicans can’t afford to gamble on short-term, hard-hitting political victories.  Its leadership needs to set a course to wrest the White House away from the Democrats so the American Dream can be rekindled.  Rather than continually casting itself into the mold carved out by Democrats and lapdog journalists, Republicans need to highlight how it has become the party of liberty and prosperity while the opposing party stands only for domineering government and stagnation.

But America seems sadly destined to hear a lot of bawling and wailing from a toddler who didn’t learn the first several times.

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School Daze

DunceThe shrinking pool of twenty-first century dupes is giving Barack Obama headaches.  Fondly, he reminisces on halcyon years when all the world’s disaffected and naïve were beating their ways to his presence, but nowadays he’s forced to actually seek out people who will refrain from smirking while attending his lectures.  Outreach to youth is the quaint euphemism White House apparatchiks use to excuse Obama’s obsession with his selfie stick and that he grants interviews to only fourth and fifth-rate media outlets.  So desperate is the presidential quest for relevance that he recently resorted to stopping by Mrs. Lafferty’s third grade classroom:

“Children,” he told the eager faces.  “I’m excited and honored you’ve invited me to come answer questions about being president.”

“I have one,” announced a freckled girl.  “Is it true Muslim terrorists will turn friendly if they get jobs?”

“In America,” lectured Obama, “we have a long tradition of not using ugly terms like that.  And yes, employment gives people a sense of belonging and hope.”

A frail, bright-eyed girl raised her hand and speculated: “Well, since we’re the engine driving global markets, isn’t our stalled economy hampering job growth in Muslim countries?”

“Let me be clear: our economy is fine.  We’ve had a stimulus and Joe Biden oversaw the summer of recovery.  Unemployment is dropping steadily.”

A pensive boy in the front row wondered, “But isn’t true unemployment rising because people quit looking for jobs?”

Obama grew terse: “I inherited the worst economic situation in the history of the universe.”

A boy behind horn-rimmed glasses got the president’s attention.  “Um, I think what they mean is if you believe jobs will curb Muslim terrorism, wouldn’t it make sense to unburden our own economy by slashing taxes and axing regulations?  If we let businesses here thrive, wouldn’t that be like a tsunami lifting global, hence Muslim, economies?”

“Yes, a tsunami,” uttered flabbergasted Obama.  “Speaking of which, children, there’s probably some sort of natural disaster requiring my attention … Good-bye.”

Once sequestered behind his limousine’s tinted windows, incensed Obama lit a cigarette and tapped out an urgent text message to the White House staff: “Going 4ward target audience 2 B grade 2 and belo.  Thx”


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A Not-In-Love Story

esquire motel[1]Television cables sizzled with the salacious gossip: “Barry doesn’t love his mistress,” speculated relationship counselor Rudy Giuliani.  “All the signs are there.”

Barry’s mistress bolted up in bed.  “You do love me, don’t you hun?”

Head propped against a skewed and sweat-stained pillow, Barry lighted twin cigarettes and placed one to her lips.  “Sure, baby,” he said, “there’s love …”

Uneasy silence fell across the bed before the mistress wanted to know: “There’s love, hun?  That’s all you can say?”

Barry sent nonchalant smoke rings toward the seedy motel’s ceiling.  “It’s just there’d be deeper love if you underwent fundamental change, baby.”

Fundamental change?” screamed the mistress.  “What the hell is that?”

Barry waved the back of his hand toward her hair.  “Your do, for instance; try a different cut, maybe some dye.  And what about that nose, baby?  It could stand some surgery, your lips, too, and why not try Botox?  While the doc’s at it, he could give these tits some life and tend to that flabby ass, and why not shed a few pounds and slim your thighs?”

The trembling mistress had scrambled bedside and was drawing a robe around her inadequate body.  “Nothing else?” she chided, “That’s all the fundamental change I need?”

“Well, you speak too freely and I detest how you own a gun and cling to your church.  But, really, that’s it except you’re not wise with your money–I’d spend it much better.”

The mistress accused recumbent, smoking Barry with a pointed forefinger.  “Well, hardly more than half of me has ever loved you,” she informed the aloof man.  “I’ve got a young, naïve streak that you infatuate, but my wiser side cringes whenever you phone.  And frankly, the past couple years your lame performance in the sack is turning off my younger side, too.  So it’s over, got it?”

Barry shrugged his gangly shoulders.  “Sure, baby, it’s over.  But you should know I’ve got a Persian babe to fall back on.”

“I bet you do!  A whole Muslim harem is more your style.”

“Really, baby, don’t call them Muslim.  It’s insensitive.”



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Shoveling Moody’s Waste

cow-butts[1]Chester H. Moody ascended to president of his Future Farmers chapter as a mere high school junior.  Later, at State Agriculture College, he grew enamored of animal husbandry and, upon graduation, eloped with his childhood sweetheart and the couple used her savings to open a thriving dairy farm just off a winding road on the outskirts of tiny South Rapids.  Last Friday, clad in tall rubber boots and armed with a broad shovel, Moody was making tracks to his long, low barn when a Secret Service detachment blocked his progress.

“Dadgum if folks from the White House didn’t beat me to the job,” explained the amused Moody.  Shoulder to shoulder with new G-men friends, he pinched his nose as Joe Biden led a trio of steaming dump trucks across the cattle guard and down to the road back to the District.  Through a sly grin the dairyman conjectured, “Smells like Obamer’s fixin’ to give us a lecture.”

Indeed: no sooner had the noisome trucks rolled under the White House portico than Obama and his toadies were wheeling barrows of rank manure to media outlets.  Time had once more arrived to shift blame for Muslim terrorism away from Islam and dump it firmly in the lap of pernicious America.  Terrorists’ grievances, rebuked the president, must be addressed before ISIS monsters can be expected to give up arms and join the community of nations.

State Department spokeswoman Marie Harf, daft personification of dumb-blond jokes, gazed through Peabody spectacles and speculated that all a terrorist wants is a job.  As if she’s ever held one.

If she had, she just might suspect that a terrorist would make a lousy employee: “Boss, I need Tuesday off for the big attack in Banghazi,” or, “Sorry, have to skip tomorrow’s staff meeting to sharpen my sword.  Mass beheading of Christians coming up.”  Other workers, perhaps, would grow unnerved and distracted after recognizing their masked coworker, dozing in the break room, had only last night made his YouTube debut by setting fire to a Jewish captive.

But this administration would hardly understand that embarrassment arises when a fellow worker gains infamy in the media.  To Obama and his immature collection of apologists, that’s an incident they call Monday.

Embarrassment, however, is what Farmer Moody suffers now that his manure has been slung across America.  “No sir, isn’t dadgum unemployment making terrorists,” the former FFA president philosophizes.  “But it’s unemployment that will defeat terrorists.  Barack Obamer’s unemployment, in particular.”

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Fifty Shades Of Failure

thLH816Z5HIt’s suddenly the salacious rage among America’s progressive aristocracy: clad in tuxes and gowns they slip into Georgetown homes; tweed-jacketed, they crowd faculty lounges; in pant suits they pack Hillary’s living room.  Nearly breathless do the liberal congregations sip cocktails and pick through canapes while, full of giddy anticipation, they must endure a delay before for the screening begins.

It’s neither lengthy nor artistic, the video that will splash across screens for the restive audiences.  Unstable, at first, and out-of-focus is the scene that plays out, the fruition of fantasies for Barack and Michelle who, divining the film’s lurid nature, watch only in the assuring comfort of their closest circle of advisors.

Rapt faces gape at the intriguing action finding life.  No word is dared murmured lest it punctures the soaring tension; hands, trembling and wanton, clutch one another and bring excitement full-circle for, as gasps and joyous whimpers attest, the action quickly rises toward climax, a pinnacle of delight that for years and lifetimes these progressive Americans have felt appropriate to suppress.

But Obama’s liberated America knows no propriety so the left now enjoys the freedom to gather and witness their lewd dream-come-true, one crafted in Sanaa, Yemen.   Thighs tingle and pulses race before the deed is quickly done: United States Marines give up their weapons and are forced from their post.

Audiences laud the incident with applause and burst into avid chatter once the screen falls blank.  Sure, America’s dwindling stature is fantasy come to life for brooding leftists.  But it also shows the world yet another shade of Obama’s failed presidency.

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Groundhog Day Redux

Groundhog[1]Jesse Jackson’s dog-eared calendar is marked 1963 and observes Groundhog Day ten days late.  So, with all the tedium and ostentation of the annual Gobbler’s Knob ritual, Jackson has just ventured from his burrow to again reel at concocted racial strife.  America, it seems, must endure at least another six weeks of race-baiting.

Jackson’s lively imagination this time has targeted the dispiriting tale of the Jackie Robinson West Little League team, an all-black squad from Chicago that last summer ascended to national champions.  But once confetti was swept and the final soda pop toast swallowed, a sordid secret grew apparent: coaches had ignored the limits of geographic boundaries and stacked their roster with ineligible players.   Little League International, confronted by such a blatant breach of a fundamental rule, was forced to annul the illegal team’s wins and rescind its title.  Disheartening, of course, but a valuable lesson for the boys as well as the nation: rules matter.

But to the Civil Rights Industry rules never carry the gravity of skin tone, hence we find Jackson again shuffling court papers and grumbling of legal action.  Little League International, to Jackson’s fantasies, was spurred to action by racial malice vice the weight of regulations; again he will build a lame argument upon the irrational myth that blacks can never succeed within the rules.

And Barack Obama, ever eager to eschew petty nuisances like ISIS, terrorism, and Putin, will relish regressing to his “community organizer” roots by pouncing on this fictional injustice.  So America can expect some “Cracker Jack summit” at which Jackson, Obama, and other disaffected dandies will strong-arm Little League International into judging, going foward, by color of skin and never by content of character.

Throughout Jackson’s impending imbroglio the true victims of Jackie Robinson West’s coaches will remain invisible: teams that limited recruiting to legitimate boundaries were denied talented players usurped by the dishonest coaches.  Those rule-abiding teams played out their seasons with diminished chances of winning and advancing to the very championship Jackie Robinson West stole.  That’s the true miscarriage America should find unsavory, an injustice Jackson and the Civil Rights Industry aren’t astute enough to recognize.

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On The Beat With Officer O

Walk In New York - NYC Vintage - Lower East Side[1]It’s quaint, this pleasant city district where awnings shelter storefronts and each market’s sidewalk is crowded by produce bushels, where drying laundry crisscrosses cobblestone streets.  Boys in a cul-de-sac are running stickball bases while smiling Officer O’Bama offers encouragement, “Tremendous hit, Johnny!  Now keep it up, boys.”

Taking calm and measured paces, the good officer resumes his beat when a lad unexpectedly darts past and shopkeeper Kelly points a frantic finger: “Stop that urchin!  He’s pinching apples.”

“Whoa, Kelly,” says O’Bama.  “Urchin’s a bit of a slur, don’t you think?”

“But he’s stealing my apples.”

Stealing, Kelly?  At first it was pinching, and didn’t it occur to you he might be filching or even looting?”

Exasperated, Kelly laments, “But Officer–he took my apples,” and while the boy gains distance and O’Bama parses vocabulary, an alarm takes to clanging over at the Savings and Loan.

“What’s this?” utters O’Bama, striding across the cobblestones, ordering sternly, “You two!  Stop right there!”

Down the Savings and Loan steps the pair has scurried, gats pocketed and greenbacks, dripping from their satchel, fluttering around them.

O’Bama, taken to his knees and gathering the bills, lectures, “This street drains to the river, you two.  Mustn’t be careless and allow this litter to pollute the marine habitat, right?”  Regaining his feet, O’Bama stuffs the recovered loot into the overflowing sack; with satisfaction he tips his hat and watches the bandits scrambling into a waiting black sedan.  As the auto peels off Mrs. Molinari shuffles up, tears streaming from black, swollen eyes.  “Help me, Officer O,” she pants, “my husband, he be beating me.”

“Husband?” asks O’Bama.  “Don’t you realize the overwhelming majority of husbands are kind and gentle?  Get off your high horse, Mrs. M, and consider it unjust to disparage a whole class of the citizenry by alleging baseless accusations.  Husband?  Be more specific, Mrs. M.  Make do, perhaps, with marriage extremist.”

By then t-shirted Molinari is charging down, cudgel in hand and vowing, “I’ll teach you to talk to men!”  Amicably does O’Bama tip his cap as the couple screams off just as the newsboy rounds the corner shouting, “Extra!  Extra!”  One arm is laden with a stack of  newsprint, the other hand waves a sample aloft.  “Crime Rampant in Neighborhood” screams the headline, which the boy parrots in a voice twice his size.

Enraged, Officer O’Bama scowls, “Why you … ” and jabs his nightstick at the youngster.  “How dare you hawk this filth on my beat, you urchin you.”  By the collar he grabs the terrified lad, dragging him and the pile of repugnant papers along the gutter.  “For this offense I’m hauling you in, you news peddler, you.  Reform school will suit you well, it will.”

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Fiorello Obama?

th200M5WB0Ask, and Barack Obama will certify he’s history’s sagest statesman, not merely a master of law and politics, but a science arbiter, theologian, military strategist, historian, basketball specialist, and brewer.  So mundane, in fact, does his immense intellect find Oval Office pressures that he recently speculated that the presidency is no more rigorous than the demands on a big-city mayor.  Fiorello Obama, he must fancy himself, a tenacious plug-of-a-man barking orders to clear snow from the streets and unclog the sewers, mow the grass in parks and especially golf courses, keep those garbage trucks rolling.

But, judging by six years’ performance, time’s arrived for Obama to abandon delusion: he is no La Guardia.  No, but he accurately parodies Mayor Shinn, chief executive of Meredith Wilson’s fictional River City, Iowa.  Like Obama, Shinn is a bumbling and indecisive character, one poised at every moment to grab his lapels and launch into hollow oration, a man oblivious to being flummoxed at every juncture by fast-talking Professor Harold Hill.  With the White House keys jangling in Mayor Shinn’s pocket two more years, Americans might want to follow the lead of The Music Man ensemble and take to the streets belting out, “Oh we got trouble, right here in River City …”

Trouble, indeed, with a capital T that rhymes with B that stands for Barack.

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The Secret Life of Hillary Mitty

liarsThe desolation of network television will grow riveting once NBC celebrity Brian Williams lands his big interview with media-darling Hillary Clinton.  The in-depth encounter is destined to play out along these lines:

HC: Sorry I’m late … my plane was shot down.

BW: No apology needed.  Happens all the time.

HC: There was a time my pilots had to corkscrew into Tuzla.

BW: I prefer bailing out.

HC: Well, I rush the cockpit and take the yoke.

BW: Indeed?  Then I gather you’re a flyer of substantial experience.

HC: Well, isn’t that the measure of a great Secretary of State?  I logged many miles.

BW: And your husband, the former president: you know the press corps boasts he’s a member of the mile-high club?

HC: Really?  I guess I wasn’t along on that trip.

BW: I’m sure you were seeing to vital matters.

HC: Yes–our consulate in Benghazi, maybe.

BW: Fascinating.  I’ve heard rumors of your heroics there.

HC: What difference does it make?  But I tried to stop them.

BW: Them?

HC: Guys out for a walk that evening, angry about some tasteless YouTube video.  They left graffiti all over.

BW: I was en route for a live remote when they shot my chopper with an RPG.

HC: Again?

BW: Happens all the time.

HC: What are the chances?  By the way, did I mention Sir Edmund Hillary?

BW: Sir Ed?  Why, he conquered Everest in ’53; I did last Tuesday.

HC: Wow … You know I was named for him back in 1947?  That’s why I should be elected president.

BW:  Because you were born in ’47?

HC: No.  Because we’ve never had a president named for a mountain climber.

BW: Interesting … Has it occurred to you that we hadn’t had a black president until justice prevailed and we elected Barack?

HC: Barack?  Barack who?

BW: Barack Obama.  Ever meet him?

HC: No, no I haven’t.  But honestly, Brian, I keep so busy I actually lose track of who’s in the White House.

BW: I’m sure America understands … So thank you, Madame Secretary, this certainly has been insightful for my viewer.

HC: Such probing questions … and look!  My space shuttle’s just landing to get me.  Off to rule the world ….

BW: And wouldn’t you know I hear army Chinooks approaching for me.  Off to invent malarkey ….

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It’s Howdy Doody Time For America

220px-Buffalo_Bob_Smith_and_Howdy_Doody[1]My childhood neighborhood was vibrant with marauders, Apaches, bank robbers, and posses of boys quick-drawing plastic revolvers to fend off those dastardly villains.  Those were days when kids took their cues from America’s global stature and John Wayne blockbusters: never did the world’s evil-doers prevail and every gunfight started with arguments over who had to be the German, Jap, or horse rustler; there wasn’t a boy not aching to be the hero–the G-man or sheriff, the frogman.

Pursuits and showdowns played out under the amused scrutiny of moms gazing through kitchen windows, women wise enough to understand they were raising the next crop of stouthearted American men.  But America has sunk into a helpless abyss since moms dealt six-shooters, Winchesters, and muskets to their white-hatted progeny.  Nowadays schools expel boys who dare mimic a pistol with thumb and forefinger while rabble march the streets chanting for death to cops.  Children hardly venture outside anymore, much less gather to recreate Bowie’s valiant stand at the Alamo, and sports leagues eschew scorekeeping and celebrating winners.

Now the world suffers the shameful ramification of America’s timid demeanor: Muslim armies march, murder, and conquer while we dither and deny their danger.  Far from a heroic superpower assuming John Wayne’s scowl while facing down the bad guy, we find ourselves little more than a compliant Howdy Doody.

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