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Updated: 2 hours 47 min ago

Deceptively Blue Skies

14 hours 54 min ago

Deceptively blue skies sit above Mexico beach in Florida making its appearance live up to its name. As residents crawl out of the rubble there is no government help. No electricity, no food, not even water because like Mexico, you cannot drink the water. Fingers are already pointing. It makes you consider what the governmental response would have been had Michael had made landfall on Washington DC.

Let me ask you a question. Aside from camps to imprison patriots, or house illegal aliens, have you ever known FEMA to do anything? You’d think for 13.9 billion dollars they could have come up with some Ozarka water. The left screams to end ICE. Why don’t we end FEMA.

From Katrina to Michael the song remains the same. That same senate that was so interested in a high school beer party can’t even spell “FEMA” much less examine the money that pours into that pit. Of course, you understand that they’d all have to take their shoes off to count that high.

So where is help coming from. It’s coming from concerned citizens and churches. If you said the Red Cross you’d be wrong. The Red Cross sets up barriers to prevent “unauthorized” commodities from reaching those in need. This is where we, as Americans, need to come together. Michael had no politics. Only destruction.

As I wrote last week, I’ve seen what a hurricane can do. I’ve seen the body on the fence with crabs hanging off. I’ve smelled the smell of death. I’ve seen the endless flat terrain blending into the Gulf of Mexico. There wasn’t any FEMA in those days, only people. My dad repaired roofs no matter if the owner could pay or not. And he did it because SOMEONE had to.

Of course Donald Trump will be blamed. Guess he should have built a wall to keep the hurricane out. Hey! It worked for Galveston. The president didn’t invent FEMA. He inherited it. Funny how I haven’t heard a peep out of Hollywood. They HAVE water.

Americans will overcome, improvise and adapt. They always do. But this time don’t forget, or explain away FEMA. Defund it! Nobody’s gonna miss it except those wetbacks living at the country club. No more free tacos means fewer compadres. Y’all think I’m mean, huh? I’ve seen the deceptively blue skies.

I don’t want to alarm you but this won’t be the last hurricane. They always bring family. And each time they do Congress throws more money at “For Each Mexican Entitled,” known as FEMA. What could we buy for all that money? Health care? Better schools? Raises for the elderly scraping by on what’s jokingly called “Social Security?” Or maybe a bottle of water for a little girl on Mexico Beach staring at the deceptively blue skies!

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Sun, 10/14/2018 - 10:29am

Sharon knocked on the door, and Michelle answered.

“Oh, Hi!” She grabbed Sharon, and hugged her. Sharon hugged her, and then stepped back to let Michelle hug John. As the teenage girl hugged him, John couldn’t help but think about her being molested. He had studied all the psychology courses on the subject, and hoped that the girl didn’t carry any scars from the ordeal.

Upon stepping into the apartment, John was surprised to find that it was very clean! It even smelled good. The “bricks” had a bad odor to them, but that smell had not gotten into the little home. On the walls were pictures of Jesus and Mary exposing their hearts to the room. A little cross with Jesus on it was situated on the opposite wall. Above the front door he noticed some letters written in chalk. He made a mental note to ask Sharon about that one.

“Mom’s up there with Joley. She’s not doing so hot. We called the doctor, but it’ll be a while until he gets here. Would you like something to drink?”

“No,” Sharon replied, “I’d like to see Joley if I could.”

Michelle led them up the steps to Joley’s room. The little girl was lying on her bed, slightly propped by two pillows. Her mother was seated beside the bed holding her hand. John was struck by the “sick room” odor that was now in the air. This little lady was very ill, and she was sinking fast. His years in the ministry told him that this was a very serious situation.

Click Image for book

The room was decorated with pictures of clowns and horses. A “baby doll” was seated in a chair near a window, never to be played with. There was a little black and white TV set, but no cable. In the little girl’s free hand was her Rosary. She was manipulating the beads, but she was not saying the prayers. Her illness had brought her to a point where speech was very difficult for her.


When Michelle’s mother saw them enter she gently set Joley’s hand down, and rose to greet them.

“Mom, this is the lady I told you about. Sharon, this is my mom.”

Sharon took the woman’s hand and then hugged her. The poor lady lost all control for a moment, and sobbed as they held each other.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I just don’t know what to do. Sometimes. . . ”

Sharon put her finger on the woman’s lips, “Shhhhhhh. Don’t worry about it. Let me see Joley.”

They all stood back, and Sharon knelt beside Joley’s bed. “Joley. Joley. Can you hear me, Joley? I’ve come to pray with you.”

The little girl’s eyes opened slowly. The whites were no longer white, but yellow. John knew what that meant. She focused on Sharon.

“Are you the lady Michelle told me about?”

“I don’t know what she’s told you, but I am the lady who has prayed with her. Would you like to pray, Joley?”

“Oh, yes. . . yes. . . very much. . . but, I’m sick. I don’t think I’ll do a good job.”

Tears welled up in Sharon’s eyes. “Yes you will . You know, when we say the Rosary we are weaving a garland of roses for Mary. Did you know that?”

“Yes, but my garland will be messy today.”

“Well, let’s see. Maybe we need some help with our weaving. Sometimes many tailors are needed to make a beautiful coat.” She looked around, “John, take her hand.”

This was no time for religious debate. John knelt on the opposite side of the bed, and took hold of the little girl’s hand. It was very hot.

“This is my friend, John. He’s a preacher, just like ‘Holy Joe.’ He’s going to be one of our tailors today, OK?”
Joley nodded, and John felt her squeeze his hand slightly.

“Michelle, Mrs. Ortiz, would you both please kneel, and get out your Rosaries?”

Michelle and her mother went to their knees, Michelle knelt beside Sharon, and her mother by John. John felt compelled to pull out the little plastic Rosary that Sharon had given him.
“OK, now, Joley, since you’re under the weather, I want to do the Rosary like this. I’ll introduce the mystery, and John, can you say the ‘Our Father’ for us?”

He nodded.

“Good, and Michelle, you and your mother, could you say the ‘Hail Marys’ for us, and then we’ll all say the ‘Glory Bes’, and the Fatima prayer.”

John looked at Sharon’s eyes with an “I don’t know those, ” look. He could hear her voice in his head saying , “Don’t worry about it.”

“Now, Joley, what I need you to do is this. Every time you see that we’re coming to the names of ‘Jesus,’ or ‘Mary,’ I want you to just whisper along, ‘Jesus,’ ‘Mary.’ OK?”

“I think I can do that.”

“Good. Shall we begin? In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. . . ”

Sharon said the Apostle’s creed, and introduced the first mystery. John held fast to the little girl’s hand with one hand, and to the beads with the other. He said his “Our Father” flawlessly. His preacher’s voice was perfect for the occasion. The little girl was not required to speak during his prayer, but during Michelle and her mother’s section the little voice would softly say, “Mary, Jesus, Mary,” in perfect concert with the prayer. During the Fatima portion she’d utter “Jesus,” under her breath.

As the Rosary went on Michelle’s voice cracked more than once, and they all faded a little until by the forth decade almost all you could hear was the little girl’s, “Mary, Jesus,” over, and over again. The Rosary took about a half hour to say. When it was over they all remained on their knees a little while, Michelle and her mother bowing their heads and still praying softly.

John looked over at Sharon, who was staring into Joley’s eyes. Tears were flowing freely down Sharon’s face, but she did not sob. His eyes looked at Joley’s face. Joley was looking back at Sharon. They were locked in a spiritual embrace. Joley’s grip on John’s hand relaxed slightly.

Long moments passed, and finally John asked Sharon, “Do you think I should go and call the doctor again for them?”

“She’s already gone, John.”
Stunned he looked quickly back at Joley’s face. She was smiling, but only now did he notice that her eyes were no longer blinking. Michelle’s mother, upon hearing the statement from Sharon burst into loud sobs, and began to talk in Spanish with Michelle hugging her saying, “It’ll be all right, ma ma, it’ll be all right.”

Sharon reached gently up, and closed Joley’s eyes. Michelle got up and walked around the bed. She looked down at her little sister. “Joley, when you see the Blessed Mother, tell her the new way we are saying the Rosary. And, please, say it with her for me.” She fell to her knees, and began to sob long sobs over her sister.

Sharon took a necklace from around Joley’s neck with a little medal on it, and gave it to Michelle. As Michelle, and her mother knelt beside the body, John and Sharon left the room. They walked to a nearby park that was part of the projects. John sat on a bench with Sharon, and tried to take it all in.

“God! That was terrible!”

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A Different Kind Of Soldier

Fri, 10/12/2018 - 10:02pm

A Different Kind Of Soldier

And it came to pass that an angel of the Lord did appear before me clad all over in armor of gold, and in his hand he carried a sword of flame which he gave unto me to slaughter mine enemies and the enemies of my kind. His word to me was that the Lord would protect me and mine from the malice of our enemies that we might, from that day forward keep and honor His word and the word did go forth as many an enemy fell before that golden blade of righteousness. So let fear be banished, sent back to the darkness whence it came, and let courage and the will of the one true God be law upon the earth.

The vision of Janus

I never wanted to tell my story. To be honest, I’m afraid, and maybe a little ashamed of my story. To be honest,I don’t even remember the day that changed my life. I think honesty is very important when you are talking about your life. You don’t want people to think you’re dishonest, then they won’t trust anything you say.

You remember Richard Pryor and his story? It was so unbelievable that he had to tell it as a comedy routine. It was so outlandish that nobody believed it was his life story for a really long time. It’s funny when you think about that. White people laughed themselves silly as that poor guy stood up in front of them and told a tragic tale that was his life. That’s the way I look at it anyway.

The thing is, to just about everyone who has lived a normal life, my story is, well, unbelievable. So, if I’m going to tell my story, I’ll tell it my way, which is to tell the truth. So, I really don’t remember the day that changed my life. I don’t remember the next nine months either, but I do know what happened. I was a few months past eight years old when it happened. I got that from the news paper articles my mom clipped out and hid from my dad. She gave them to me just before she died of cancer in Florida. She didn’t actually give them to me; she also wrote me a twelve page letter that pretty much cleared up what my whole life was all about, and why things had turned out the way they had for me at home.

She put the letter and the clippings along with some other stuff in an envelope, and mailed them to me. Inside the envelope, one of those big brown ones they use in offices, was a note. In it my mom said she loved me, and I shouldn’t feel bad about who I was, on account of it wasn’t my fault. This was so astonishing to me that I had to sit at my desk for a long time just letting that sink in, because the one thing I did remember about my life up until then was that I was a bad person, and that just about everything was my fault. She also said not to open the big envelope until I knew it was time to open it. I really, really wanted to open that envelope right then. I had to know what absolution lay within it. More that anything I needed to make sense of the things I had done in the long years since I had parted ways with my folks. Time passed as it does in every life. I got cancer myself, diagnosed with stage four brain cancer and lived! Although I thought about it, I didn’t open the envelope during those dark and hopeless weeks in the Gethsemane of chemotherapy and radiation. I got bad news from my doctor that the chemo had wrecked my heart, so as soon as I was strong enough, I got a heart transplant. Didn’t open it then either.

By now, something had changed in the way I felt about myself. I began to see the envelope as some kind of talisman containing forgiveness, and that the possession of it freed me from my guilt the way that those wooden swords, rudiari I think they were called, conferred freedom upon gladiators, but only when it was with them. I became afraid to open the envelope, because, what if i did, and it was nothing but a confession of parenting gone wrong, which I had already worked out during the process of becoming a social worker? But I did open the envelope. Before I can tell you about that though, we have to go back in time.

I was just south of twenty one years old living in the last of Jimmy Carter’s America. Times were pretty hard then, because Congress and the senate had decided that a future favoring such communistic ideas as a working wage and alternative energy were a complete outrage; therefore Wall Street shut down the money spigot. Since, like just about everything else money runs downhill, there wasn’t much to go around at the bottom of the heap, which was pretty close to my neighborhood. Since I had a new wife, and a newer baby I had to hustle. Now, hustling isn’t just working hard. Hell, everybody was working hard in those days. Sure, there were a few deadbeats then, but mostly, Americans had pride in themselves. Honor was what we substituted for money. God knows there was enough of it to go around, seeing as the rich had decided they didn’t need any of it what with all the money they had. All you needed to do was watch an episode of ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous’, knowing that every kid in your crappy trailer park could go to college on what one of the ritzy Lamborghinis Robin Leach was drooling over cost.

No, hustle was something people who were already working hard had to do.something extra. You had to do something more, maybe a little shady to make things work. And hustling wasn’t something just anyone could do either. If you wanted to hustle, you had to know somebody. You had to get a break.
I got my break when I was buying some plumbing parts at for my day job. The parts guy who had filled my order there followed me out to my truck talking amiably about the upcoming Cowboys Steelers game. The conversation took a completely different turn when we got outside. Squinting one eye at the smoke floating up from a cigarette clenched in the corner of his mouth he looked both ways as if someone might be listening to us. “I uh, I got a piece of work for you if you’re interested” he said. I was working at a rental company doing everything from that needed doing in a living unit. The list is long, so we’ll just call me a jack of all trades, and master of some.

“I hardly got time for the jobs A.D. has lined up for me now” I said opening a side box on the truck’s bed.

“Don’t mean that kind of work.”

I looked at him for a long minute. His name was Doug, and he was fresh home from the war. Even though he’d done three tours in country, Doug was never going back to shooting slants for Uncle Sam; a section eight had seen to that. But nobody ever thought Doug was crazy, at least not out loud. Standing there in his blue checked short sleeves, and his boyish face under a civilian haircut, the last thing he looked like was a break. And yet, I felt it.

Taking a chance, I took a step closer to him and asked, “Well what kind of work do you have in mind Doug?” I might be blowing my break, but I also wanted all of the cards on the table.

“Heard about Mexico?” Seeing the wind was wrong, and wanting to maintain eye contact with me, he took the aggravating cigarette from his mouth and flipped it an impressive distance. “That kind of work” he says real cool like.

“ About six months ago a Bird colonel, some kind of big bug up in I corps and new to Fort Hood got his dishy fourteen year old daughter kidnapped by some bikers while he and his wife were out late doing the new officer thing. They’d done the right thing and hired a babysitter. The thing was though, the babysitter had a habit and she kind of sold the kid to some bikers. There was a huge investigation and manhunt that went on for weeks, and covered several counties. The FBI came in and turned Killeen upside down, and did little to spare Houston and Beaumont, the towns these scooter bums were from, either. People were arrested. People were sent to jail, but not for kidnapping. For drug possession and distribution sure. For illegal gun possession and felony warrant sure. But they never found the girl.”

“All the while they’re banging this poor kid in a converted barracks not a half mile from City Hall. When things cooled off and these losers ran out of dope, and seeing as she had a habit now, they sold her to some guys in a small settlement outside Temple named ‘Little Mexico’. The kind of place you might think twice about going if you were white.”

“So, a mutual acquaintance, J.M., a genuine bad man gets contracted to a guy I’ll call Junior go after the girl. Junior’s reputation as a bounty hunter and gun slinger was legendary. Known as ‘The Sheriff o Simmonsville’ he was where you went when all else failed. News of low men often reaches high places.”

“Once the idiots had sold the live bait, her whereabouts became known in the low places men frequent. Junior Put together a posse that was roughly the modern equivalent of Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders. Old time gun slingers who had fallen on hard times in an emerging world of bureaucracy. The way I got a spot on the king’s posse was that I got a break. I happen by a chance of genetics to be one of those odd folks with a natural talent for guns, and I practiced. A lot. But more importantly, I knew somebody.”

“We missed the girl by two days in Little Mexico. News travels in both directions in the low places, and she was already on her way to Juarez. After fighting a minor war and leaving a more than a few bodies in that miserable outpost of alien occupation, a diminished posse went down into old Mexico. Some had been shot or stabbed, some had just quit because most men don’t take to violence on civilian battlefields. You might ask what about the cops? Well, for one thing cops who went to Little Mexico didn’t come back very often, so they figured a few dead Mexicans whose identities would be forever unknown wasn’t worth the risk; second, by now everyone in central texas wanted this thing done. They knew Junior Would do it bloody, but that suited everybody just fine.”

“We didn’t sneak across the border. Instead the colonel saw us in on a C 130, making that my first trip on a military transport. We got lucky the next day. The girl was making the rounds to the surrounding ranches on her way to the hog farm, and there were only sixteen men with her when we struck. By then we were pretty sick at what was happening to the girl, and even though most of them wanted to give up, we left sixteen bodies on that ranch. Several of the men attempted to surrender, and Junior Told them to throw out their weapons and come out with their hands up. We shot them like target practice.”

“The colonel got his girl back, Junior’s reputation grew larger, although some people said he was wrong to shoot unarmed men, which shows how much the world had changed. But me? I got five thousand dollars. It was the most money I had ever seen in one place in my life. One of the other men on that expedition, the one who brought me in actually, joked joyously that we were ‘thousandaires.”

So now, looking at a smiling Doug the kind of work he meant. He wouldn’t tell me the plan until I committed to the action, so we did a little trading about hypotheticals, and the minute he descrIbed the hypothetical problem, I knew I was down for the solution. I may not have been in the military, but I had studied military tactics most of my life. There is something elegant about defeating your enemy through a knowledge of his strengths, and using your weaknesses to an advantage. Doug, who had really been sectioned out because he had killed too many people, knew all that, and he had great intelligence on our target, which was, as luck would have it, the same scooter trash that had earned me my first score.

They were moving Meth and heroin in, and money out. Their plan was to have the money rendezvous with the drugs in what would be a remote location at this time of year. The swap would happen at the reservoir created by a dam that served the Killeen Harker Heights area, as well as Fort Hood and Copperas Cove. The entire area was a bowl partly filled with water, surrounded by thick trees and brush. The ground rose steeply into the trees, and large boulders surrounded the rim not blocked by the dam. There was one road in and out. If someone had given me a map of the area I couldn’t have found a better place for an ambush.

Doug had explained that it could only be the two of us, because the M.C. was not likely to conduct a sloppy investigation into their lost loot, and I agreed. He also let it slip that his informant, a guy who was supposed to be in on the deal developed terminal laryngitis. A precaution, Doug explained.

They convoyed into the remote area of the Stillhouse Hollow reservoir to make the switch. Eight bikes and two vans were parked in a circle close to what would be a swimming beach in the summer. Because I could shoot at range, or up close it was up to me to make opening remarks. My first target was a huge man with a real wooden peg leg. I knew him to have been in on the kidnapping of the colonels daughter. He was a lieutenant in this club, so taking him out created a few precious moments of confusion. I hit him with a four fifty eight Winchester magnum round. The five hundred grain bullet strolling in at roughly twenty two hundred feet per second literally tore his left arm and shoulder from his body. The Wetherbe Mark V that I was using had E equals MC squared engraved on the barrel in fancy script. I didn’t see Peg Leg go down right away because I had already shifted to my next target, a man slouched on his bike, motor running some twenty yards to the left of the two vans.

Since he was at the periphery of the clot of bikes I reasoned that this would momentarily move toward the center, giving me some closely grouped targets. I saw that one go down because his boots filled my optic as he flipped over backwards. An undisciplined barrage of return fire aimed in a broad semicircle along the tree line I was just inside rattled out from the grouped men. None of the shots even got close.

One guy with a broom handle Mauser sprayed the bushes off to my right, and I popped him high above the collarbone, careful not to damage the weapon. Man, I just had to have that gun, it was so cool. Doug and I had agreed that we would make it look like a one shooter ambush until we had enough targets separated from the money and drugs, then we’d give them the bad news.

While I was shooting Doug was on the only road in or out of the place stringing up some improvised explosives we made from a couple of one oh fives. When the bad guys, and yes, I’ve spent a lot of sleepless nights wondering just who the bad guys were, got tired of being carnival ducks, they mounted up and came for me. That was a mistake. Spread out as they were I didn’t want to waste our two claymore traps. So I switched to an Aug Steyr. Now, I knew that the Steyr is not terribly accurate beyond three hundred yards, but I can carve pumpkins with them at that distance, and they weren’t but a hundred and fifty yards out when I opened up on them. The two vans tore off up the road they had come in on firing something heavy from the rear of the second van. I still had four men on bikes out there in the woods, but they were making it easy crashing around, loud pipes blatting. I decided to move and take a position of concealment close to the road as planned.

There was no way anyone was getting out of that killing ground except the road. As I moved into my nest I propped the Weatherbe beside me and waited. In seconds I heard…and felt the blast of the first roadside bomb. It was bigger than I expected and i figured they would have heard it miles away. But mainly I hoped none of the loot had been damaged. I heard the distinctive chatter of Doug’s AK-47.

Reasoning that the ‘lone shooter’ had gone to the scene of the blast and was now killing their homies, the last two bikes made their charge for the road. At the last second I stood almost directly in their path and loosed two short bursts. A second later two riderless motorcycles zipped past me into the brush.

Doug and I split the money. I let him keep the drugs because, well, because I knew I was going to want to get some sleep in the nights to come. Doug left town, and I never heard from him again. That was easy in those days before the internet. I had thirty thousand dollars, more than I could have made in four years at my day job. I became a gambler for awhile, and it turns out I was pretty good at that too. Kind of gave me a cover story for the spending money I planned on spending pretty soon.

As to the day that changed the rest of my life? That was in the future for me as I was standing in my workroom counting blood covered money, and burning my clothes, so I guess that’s where it’s going to have to stay until I speak of it again. I guess that envelope will just have to wait.

Woman Who Walks On Stones – The Porch

The Assent Of Justice

The Occupation

Did You Think They Were Going To Stop?


More Lies and the Lying Liars That Tell Them

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More Lies and the Lying Liars That Tell Them

Fri, 10/12/2018 - 1:32pm

More Lies and the Lying Liars that tell them. We consistently hear the term “fake news,” but I don’t think most people understand just how fake it is. First off the very phrase “fake news” is an oxymoron. If you understand the classic definition of the word “news” then it only goes to follow that news simply must be the reporting of facts relating to real events. If the event is reported fairly accurately it simply cannot be “fake!” Therefore we must replace the word “fake” with one that more accurately reflects the true definition of the situation. It’s a pack of lies!”

The are no news services anymore. It has all become “infotainment.” The packaging of reported events so as to achieve the very best possible rating. Then you mix in a little bias and you will very quickly understand why the First Lady’s shoes were more important than the fact that she was wearing them while dishing out meals to hurricane survivors. Just yesterday the Mainstream Media dedicated good breath to the fact that even though President Trump had positioned FEMA and other government services to help during the Hurricane Michael landfall, he did not break off the campaign trail to rush to Florida to ride out the storm. Perhaps the liberals should have sent Whoopi Goldberg. One look at her should scare off any hurricane.

In Hitler’s best seller he tells us that if you’re going to tell a bunch of lies tell big ones, and tell them often. In time the public to accept it as the truth. Donald Trump paid one hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars to roll in the hay with a washed up pole dancer. When the story first surfaced it was so so. Some folks believed it, some did not, but the ambulance chaser Stormy Daniels hired kept pumping the tale until it became accepted truth by the Tide Pod generation, and even some conservatives who tried to excuse it in one fashion or another but began to accepted as a little truth. There is no way to pick up a turd by the clean end, and if you have a little dog crap on your hand, you still have dog crap in your hand. When you analyze a sting, or a con you must go first to the foundation. Stormy Daniels lied! The Mainstream Media, who wouldn’t know the truth if it ran up and humped on their leg, ran with the story like Tony Dorset. And, like Tony, they dropped the ball before they reached the goal.

Telescope forward to the confirmation hearings of now “Justice” Kavanaugh. Big news! Way back when Madonna still had a recording career Kavanaugh had some kind of interaction with another high school kid at a party. Can’t prove it, no evidence, no facts, and certainly no YouTube videos, but that didn’t stop women screaming from the balcony that all white males needed to be castrated. Now, even though the Justice is seated the shouts to impeach are rising. And if you see through this, well, you’re just a misogynist!

What the MSM does not realize is that the American public is beginning to see through this dog and pony show, and only the most demented of the radical left is still waving the banner of lies, and the lying liars that tell them. There are many ways you can tell these fabricated tales. Whenever you see the word “breaking” that’s automatically a lie. Breaking News, Breaking Announcement, even Breaking Surf. All lies. Also, you would not believe how many people rely on Facebook as a reliable source of information. Negros PLEASE! Facebook? The organization that’ll suspend you account for putting up a picture of the Venus de Milo? Yet people follow this claptrap religiously. And these people VOTE!

There are many other signs. All CAPS is a good one. MELANIA FILES FOR DIVORCE! MICHELLE OBAMA IS A MAN! STORMY DANIELS’ LAWYER IS GOING TO RUN FOR PRESIDENT! And the list goes on and on. So how can you find your way through all this misinformation? By being skeptical about everything. Don’t take anything at face value. Laugh at Bill Maher’s jokes (I do) but please don’t apply his clever verbiage to real politics. And most of all do not believe the lies, and the lying liars that tell them. Oh, gotta go. Picking up Brittany Spears for the weekend.

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Did You Think They Were Going To Stop?

Thu, 10/11/2018 - 7:16am

Did you think they were going to stop? After Judge Kavanaugh became Justice Kavanaugh last week conservatives took a breath and prepared for the midterms. The Democrats had scraped the bottom of the barrel and come up with brine. Then yesterday a flurry of activity from the left burst out like a savage rabbit. Ethical questions arose on the new member of the Supreme Court, Pelosi found her mouth again, and Stormy Daniels took to her pole with renewed vengeance.

Did you think they were going to stop. Folks, in the words of the prophet, Ron White, you can’t fix stupid. The Democratic Party has one platform. Get rid of the legally elected President and ruin America. The party had degenerated to a mob during the confirmation hearings, but are you surprised? In the topsy-turvy world we live in Kim Jong Un makes more sense than the Democrats.

These are the people who ran the concubine of a serial rapist for president back in ’16. And by the way, Bill didn’t pay ANY girl he consorted with, though he did give Monica a pizza. The reminder last week alluding to women in trailer parks begs to ask what Bill Clinton was doing in that trailer park in the FIRST place. And in the final analysis it was shown that most Americans wouldn’t follow his wife into a whorehouse, ladies excluded from that analogy of course. Did you think a little thing like total defeat would make people like that stop?

Be on your guard. Do not treat the midterms as a minor vote. Right now, as I type, Democrats are loading illegals into busses, rigging polls, and signing up as many tombstones as they can in a last ditch effort to pull that jackass party of theirs out of the swamp and try to take back the house.

Even Fox News is citing polls claiming Republican conservatives are trailing behind. I must remind you that these same polls showed Hillary to be a shoe-in the night before the election, and twenty-four hours later she was trying to get a refund on her celebratory fireworks to buy more whiskey! It’s called the “Silent Majority” folks. Those guys and gals at that pub in our Butcher Shop logo!

Polls serve one purpose. Ask yourself, what to polls really do. If they had validity why do we even bother to vote? If you are led to believe that your candidate is a winner, or for that matter, a loser, what good would your puny little vote have to do with anything? That’s what they want you to think! They want you to feel like an insignificant cog in a huge party wheel. Time and time again polls have been shown to be the farce that they really are. Did someone say, “Dewey Wins?” Why even publish a poll unless you’re trying to influence a vote. It’s human nature. Everybody wants to get next to a happening guy. There is a huge contingent in this country who do not understand a thing about politics (Democrats) but will consistently vote for who they are told is the winner. With no more consideration than that which they use to purchase a gossip paper at a supermarket checkout.

Did you think they were going to stop? People like that don’t stop. They’ve been playing this game for years. These are the same people who gave you the long legged Mac Daddy for eight years, and tried to follow him up with Calamity Jane. WE stopped THEM in 2016 and they’ve been eating grass ever since. Seriously! Vote! Your vote DOES count. THEY are counting on your complacency. They want the restoration of the old order. They hate our President because he’s the wrong color. Is that racist enough for you? Well, he’s the right color. The color of all hard working Americans. A new crayon in the box. It’s called MAGA!

The post Did You Think They Were Going To Stop? appeared first on Tea Party Tribune.


Wed, 10/10/2018 - 1:12pm

As Hurricane Michael bears down on the Florida panhandle, I’m reminded to my experience in 1957. Hurricane Audrey had hit Louisiana, and my dad was sent from Shreveport to put roofs on houses that had been damaged in the storm. We went to Lake Charles. About the only thing I remember about the house was to tall Saint Augustine grass that grew wild. Dad would put me to mowing the back yard with this old timey push mower. Now, I’m six years old, the lush grass was taller than me . . . do the math.

We were removed from the coast so in spite of the number of damaged roofs dad was sent to repair we had not been to the actual coast where Audrey had come ashore. I heard the grownups talking about the people who’d gone to watch the waves generated by the storm, but got caught by the surge. I didn’t know what that meant. They said the storm had blown walls down. I saw a wall in town with a hole in it about the size of a trash can lid, convinced myself that was the size of the hurricane, and wondered what all the fuss was about.

Then came one Sunday when dad decided to take the family down to the coast. I remember it was hot and muggy. There was no bottled water so we had those six ounce Cokes most of you have never seen. Drinking one of those is all very fine, but it doesn’t do much for thirst. Dad just drank beer. Jax beer.

The road was straight. Everything was flat. Somewhere out there was the Gulf of Mexico, but I never saw it. I really didn’t see any devastation. It was a miserable place, the gulf coast. To this day when I hear of someone vacationing on the Gulf I wonder what’s in their mind. Don’t they know the beaches are in Texas, and California? There was a smell I recall. Like spoiled seafood. I was to learn that it was spoiled people.

I don’t know what the death toll was that year. I understand that a certain segment of the population did not take it very seriously, and really DID go to watch it come in. I met one of them. I was staring out of the pickup window. Me, mom, and dad were all riding on one bench seat. That was how pickups were made back in those days. Everyone else rode in the bed. As I strained to look past mom I saw that was left of a barb wire fence. Then I saw what was left of a man.

The water had washed him inland, which was unusual because I heard most of the people were sucked out to sea. Apparently, he’d snagged on what was left of this four strand fence. The fence was leaning, and his knees would have touched the ground if he’d had any. He was a half a man. The crabs had gotten everything from about halfway down. I can still see them hanging on the body, or falling out from inside. I can’t remember him having a face.

For forty years I would not eat crab. Finally I did, but only because someone told me it was Alaskan King Crab, and I reasoned that those crabs had more morals than Louisiana crabs. Every time I hear about a hurricane blowing in, and all the talk, and estimates of cost come across, I remember that man. He is hurricane to me.

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Illegal Aliens Regularly Granted Lawless Benefits

Wed, 10/10/2018 - 10:48am

Michael Anton is amazed by housebroken conservatives that support an immigration position that will eventually remove any chance for conservative government. Anton is the author of ‘The Flight 93 Election’ that outlined the stakes facing conservatives in stark terms, making him one of the first respectable conservative intellectuals to come out in support of Donald Trump.

Gary McCoy, Shiloh, IL

Lately he’s been involved in an internecine fight with country club conservatives at The National Review over birthright citizenship. For those unfamiliar with the term, birthright citizenship treats becoming a citizen of the United States with the same gravity and respect afforded a participation trophy from your 8–year–old daughter’s ballerina ball league.

Birthright citizenship is more of a cartographic theory than a governing philosophy. Supporters contend that any illegal alien who manages to cross the US border and give birth at taxpayer expense is not only producing a new niño, they have also just welcomed a US citizen into the world.

Our border is a finish line in another area of pre–natal care, too. If the illegal can worm her way across, she can demand an abortion so taxpayers are on the hook coming and going.

This anchor baby, instantly dropped into a foreign household, is also a lottery ticket that’s a guaranteed winner. ‘Experts’ never tire of assuring us that illegals cannot collect welfare, because it’s against the law. What the experts never add is Citizen Baby can collect on every welfare program known to US taxpayers and the administrator of all this largess is the illegal parent.

Conservatives supporting birthright citizenship are the equivalent of Gen. Sam Houston sending a messenger to Col. William Travis informing him that after some consideration it appears the Texas Declaration of Independence gives Santa Anna property rights. Therefore, open the gates and let the Mexicans inside the Alamo.

Restoring sanity and accuracy to the discussion of birthright citizenship was the topic of a panel at the Heritage Foundation where Anton was joined by Dr. Edward J. Erler, senior fellow of the Claremont Institute and John Fonte, director of the Center for American Common Culture.

Erler points out the Supreme Court decision that began sprint for finish–line citizenship is just as incorrect as the Dred Scott or Plessy v. Ferguson decision. In Wong Kim Ark two Chinese diplomats who were legally inside our borders and who, by treaty, could not become US citizens had a baby.

The child turned out to be a ‘blessed event’ for leftists and cheap labor importers, too.

The court ruled that since the Declaration of Independence and Constitution were based on English common law, and common law specified children born within England were pledged to the Crown, then presto! Mrs. Wong now has her own Yankee Doodle Dandy.

To arrive at a decision that backwards, one would think the judge was a product of modern government schools.

Common law doesn’t mention citizenship. It discusses permanent, perpetual subjectship and allegiance to the king, based on the feudal system of master and serf. “There are no citizens under English common law,” Erler said.

The Declaration of Independence rejected English common law, saying our nation was built on a social compact between consenting citizens. A Supreme Court decision that completely misreads the Declaration and rules that rejection is really acceptance, is a decision ripe for being overturned.

What’s even worse is the unelected, administrative state has taken a decision by the Supremes that only addressed non–citizens legally in the US and applied it willy–nilly to illegals in the US unlawfully. The Supreme Court never said children born to illegals in the US are citizens. But bureaucrats did.

The US and Canada — which can afford a handful of anchor babies, because it shares a southern border with the US and a northern border with planet’s freezer compartment — are the only two developed nations in the world that grant birthright citizenship. The United Kingdom ended the practice, as did India, New Zealand and Australia. When given a chance to vote on the issue, Ireland did, too.

What is absolutely infuriating is that birthright citizenship for illegals could end tomorrow. All President Trump has to do is issue an executive order. Or Congress could end it permanently by passing a law. The fact this has not been done is due to an unholy alliance between country club conservatives in thrall to cheap–labor businesses, the open–borders left and the administrative state.

Certainly the left would sue, but that’s a trap of their own making. If the case made it to the Supreme Court, there is a good chance Wong would be overturned and birthright citizenship ended. Trump needs to refill his executive order pen and start writing. It’s time to toss concept of anchor babies overboard, right after the mid–term election.

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The Assent Of Justice

Tue, 10/09/2018 - 9:57am

The With the assent of Justice Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court America has began the much needed step into the light of sanity. Amid the howling of the mob as he raised his right hand and took the seat of Justice Kennedy, he positioned the court to justice for a generation.The madness inflicted by Barack Obama will now begin to come to an end.

Babies will live, families will be sanctified, and wild gyrations of policy will come to an end. With the defeat of the radical left, hopefully the young people in the Democratic Party will see the errors that the likes of Feinstein, Pelosi, Warren, Green, and Clinton have imposed upon their party and this nation, and they will relegate them to the trash heap of history.

The nomination of a Supreme Court Justice would normally be a rather boring and routine thing, falling behind Bud Lite commercials during the Super Bowl. Ah for the days when football players just played football! As the decline of the Democratic Party loomed, their own position stood in jeopardy and their abominable careers sat squarely in the rifle sight of the mid-term election, the ancient DMC leadership grasped at straws (which, unfortunately they’d outlawed in California) believing if they could just do this one thing that their hold on power would survive for at least one more term.

But the voice of the Senate reverberated across America. That’s called democracy. The people who ended the Clinton Dynasty heard that voice, and come November the Democrats will hear THEIR voice. President Trump has become as El Cid. Even if he were dead in the saddle, he has won the battle. As Mueller chases his windmills, and Obama gives speeches to confused kids on college campuses, America has risen, and the people are going to put this to right.

The unprecedented attacks on the nominee exposed the Democratic Party for what it has become. Not Democratic People, the Democratic Party. The same money bags that infiltrated the Republican Party. RINOS and DINOS! There are no fifty shades of grey in Washington, it’s fifty shades of green! You want to see the Illuminati? Look no farther than Pennsylvania Avenue! From the opening bell the leadership of the Democrats made it clear that they had no intention of conducting a fair hearing. Their only consideration was that President Trump had nominated Brett Kavanaugh. That could not be allowed! As the woman who couldn’t even win a rigged election helped Doctor Ford’s lawyer load boxes in a SUV, the Democratic side of the committee broke every procedural rule as they dragged the hearing down into a bar fight. Whiskey on the right, and Shirley Temples on the left!

Professionalism flew out the window like a bat outta hell where the demented masses who truly believed that they could sway the Senate of the United States with riots, and sound bites on news services waited with their vagina hats securely fastened. Justice Kavanaugh endured all manner of lies, threats, and personal insults as they ramped up unsubstantiated charges. When they couldn’t refute his career they chose to drag a mentally ill woman before the committee and ruin her life. As the end loomed near they stormed out in a childish fit. While Justice Kavanaugh took his oath they snarled and pounded on the door like the slavering bitches they were. This is the Amerika the confirmation of Justice Kavanaugh will put to an end.

To the young people in the Democratic Party I say this. Stay with your party. America is based on a two party system. That having been said, take stock. See what your leadership has, and is doing. Take your party back. Give dignity back to the Democratic Party. Reasonable debates about Social Security, National Security, health care, women’s rights and a host of other issues that affect Americans ARE needed, but the rule of the mob has been replaced by the will of the people. See the what the lunacy of Hillary Clinton, Nancy Pelosi, and Dianne Feinstein have led you to. When, America thinks of your party they see THEM, not you!

It doesn’t matter if Trump is impeached tomorrow. He has changed America for a generation. Yes, you WILL see Rowe v Wade reversed. Yes, the “Dreamers” WILL be sent back, and yes, hopefully, God will come back to school, and at long last our children will be safe again from the sex trafficking machine Bill and Hillary Clinton set into motion so many years ago. The words of the 63rd Psalm will drown out the drums, whistles, and bells of ANTIFA! The Constitution will be pulled from beneath Obama’s foot and again displayed at the Supreme Court!

1 God, thou art my God; early will I seek thee: my soul thirsteth for thee, my flesh longeth for thee in a dry and thirsty land, where no water is;

2 To see thy power and thy glory, so as I have seen thee in the sanctuary.

3 Because thy lovingkindness is better than life, my lips shall praise thee.

4 Thus will I bless thee while I live: I will lift up my hands in thy name.

5 My soul shall be satisfied as with marrow and fatness; and my mouth shall praise thee with joyful lips:

6 When I remember thee upon my bed, and meditate on thee in the night watches.

7 Because thou hast been my help, therefore in the shadow of thy wings will I rejoice.

8 My soul followeth hard after thee: thy right hand upholdeth me.

9 But those that seek my soul, to destroy it, shall go into the lower parts of the earth.

10 They shall fall by the sword: they shall be a portion for foxes.

11 But the king shall rejoice in God; every one that sweareth by him shall glory: but the mouth of them that speak lies shall be stopped.

His will be done! God bless America, but more than that, America bless GOD!

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Deep State Conspiracy

Sun, 10/07/2018 - 7:50pm

On September 21, 2018, the New York Times revealed Dept. of Justice (DOJ) Deputy Director, Rod Rosenstein had plotted to secretly record president Trump in an effort to take down the Trump presidency.  Former FBI Deputy Director, Andrew McCabe, verified the plot as true.  McCabe is one of a dozen FBI and DOJ employees that have been fired for their Deep State conspiracy against President Trump.

The Deep State used their influence and abused their power from the beginning in an effort to influence the 2016 Presidential Election when FBI Director James Comey put agent Peter Strzok in charge of the investigation into Hillary Clinton’s illegal secret server, which revealed Top Secret and Classified information.  Comey and Strzok wrote an exoneration letter to clear Clinton of criminal charges changing the criminal verbiage from “gross negligence” to “extreme carelessness” prior to interviewing Clinton or witnesses to put the “fix in” to clear Clinton of wrongdoing, in an effort to get Clinton elected.

There was no investigation conducted into the embezzlement of money in the Clinton Foundation or the treasonous activity to sell 20 percent of American uranium supply through a third party to the Russians, while the Russians gave millions to the Clinton Foundation. Instead, the FBI and DOJ began their own phony Trump-Russian collusion investigation, which former agent Lisa Paige admitted in congressional testimony; there was “no evidence”.

Clinton and the Democratic National Committee (DNC) had funneled millions through a law firm, Perkins–Coie, who hired Fusion GPS, an opposition research group, to outsource resources to a British spy, Christopher Steele, who wanted to make sure Trump doesn’t get elected president.  Steele puts together unverified and misinformation into documents in his attempt to create Trump-Russian collusion.  The false documents, which were paid for by Clinton and the DNC, were leaked to the media by Strzok, then President Obama’s CIA Director John Brennan, and Obama’s Director of National Intelligence James Clapper to influence the American people not to elect Trump through an image of Trump-Russian collusion, using the distortion to manipulate the American people and to assure a Clinton victory.  The FBI then used the phony media story as supporting evidence to obtain their own FISA (Foreign intelligence Surveillance Court) warrant from a FISA judge, who was never told the documents were unverified or paid for by Clinton and the DNC.

After Trump shocked the world and won the presidency, the Deep State swamp was running for cover, conspiring to find a way to remove Trump  and to prevent him from knowing their treasonous actions.  Three more FISA warrants were approved and signed by Deputy Attorney General Sally Yates, McCabe, and Rosenstein.  Strzok would text Paige, “We’ll stop Trump.”  “We have an insurance policy.”

After Comey was fired by Trump, he also leaked information to a friend for the media.  Rosenstein, who was plotting to record Trump secretly, then appoints Robert Mueller, the former FBI Director prior to Comey, along with a team of attorneys, who all donated to Clinton, to investigate Trump-Russian collusion, with the sole purpose to take out Trump.

The American people had been misled with the FBI and DOJ misusing intelligence and abusing their power to form their Deep State conspiracy.

Frank Aquila is president of the South San Joaquin Republicans and author of the book, “Sarah Palin Out of Nowhere”.  He can be emailed at [email protected]

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The Occupation

Sun, 10/07/2018 - 3:27pm

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Woman Who Walks On Stones – The Porch

Sat, 10/06/2018 - 10:23pm

The Porch

by Brother Theo

I had taken the box into my room as soon as my heart stopped trying to hammer its way up my throat and into my mouth. I’m pretty sure it nearly succeeded too, because I had to swallow hard several times to get it back down. It felt heavy as I sat it on the bedside table. There was no sense of a’li’il, or magic from the box, and but for the slight change in the rhythmic hum filtering in from the outside world, I may as well have been putting a book beside my bed for some bedtime reading.

Returning to the porch, the familiar scree twang of the rusty screen door spring sounded like an old friend reminding me that all was normal. But as soon as I sat back in my also very normal chair I saw two police cars pass. Now, police cars are not exactly rare in my neighborhood. There is a lot of drug activity on my street and those surrounding it, as well as a few domestic brawls, mostly on the weekends. Like I said, it’s not a ritzy community, but for the most part, people mind their own. The two cars passed my house and parked on the opposite side of the street drawing a small crowd of onlookers which I just now noticed had not gone back inside, but had instead remained just inside their fences, now looking suspiciously at my house.

Two officers exited both cars, one positioning himself to the rear of the vehicle near the trunk, the other in front of the left fender of their parked car. The officer in front took notes, interviewing people while the crowd of gawkers drew larger and louder. Some of them began to point toward where Beaver and I sat. In minutes two more police cars blocked the ends of my block. Craning my head to look at them I noticed that the men getting out of these cars wore bulky body armor and carried assault rifles. Police like this were not unknown on the reservation, and they presaged violence the way vultures advertised death. After a brief conversation among the four officers across the street one of them, a large fit man in his early fifties spoke into his clip mike and headed toward my gate accompanied by a younger, but no less muscular officer.

The other two policemen headed around to the rear of my home. Beaver spoke quietly from the side of his mouth. “Be very careful Tsosi. Red lives matter in some places, but not everywhere.”

His voice was full of tension. Stopping at the gate the older officer spoke in a clear voice. “San Jose PD folks, you mind if we come on up to the porch? There seems to have been an incident in the area, and we’d like to ask you some questions.”

Up close, I could see his uniform was neatly pressed, and his shoes had the high gloss of constant care or patent leather. In contrast the other man seemed to be wearing his uniform the way a mechanic wears a uniform; his shoes were scuffed, and his appearance was in contrast to his partner, altogether untidy.

When Beaver began to stand the younger man put his hand on the butt of his weapon and said “Sit back down chief, nobody told you to get out of your chair”.

He said this in such a low and menacing voice that Beaver froze partially standing, arms to his sides. As if nothing at all were out of place the other officer, Hargrove, I could see by his shiny nameplate, asked, “Are there any weapons on your property Ms….”

“Stonewalker” I replied frostily. “Ms Stonewalker,” and yes there are several guns on my property.”

Beaver shot me a look of disbelief. Half standing as he was it was so comical I would have laughed had I not been in a state of calm rage. Both officers now had their hands on the butts of their weapons. The other man, Chambliss, I could now see by his name plate, which was smudged and looked as if it had never been polished, was gripping his pistol with whitening fingers. Now, here’s the odd thing: The older man was neat; his hair, although streaked with silver was freshly cut, and each hair looked perfectly in place. Hargrove’s handsome, fiftyish face looked freshly shaved, even though it was mid afternoon, but instead of aftershave, a faint smell like that of overheated metal drifted from him. His uniform looked freshly donned, and was as crisp as a November morning on the Rez. He had that ramrod straight posture that runs from heel to toe that follows some men out of the military, and yet, there was something…fuzzy about him, he asked the questions, but did not seem in control. Officer Hargrove was acting as if he were in control. which gave him a, well, a mechanical appearance. Chambliss grated “Where are the weapons?”

“Well”, I said icily “not counting the guns being carried by the officers in my backyard, I count two on your belt, and one on officer Hargrove’s.”

“You bitch!” began Chambliss. His gun was now halfway out of his holster.

“Mandi…” Beaver’s voice held something closer to panic than warning. The discrepancy between the two officers I sensed earlier was now greater than ever. I could see that Chambliss had not shaved in the last day or two. His hair was unkempt, and it grew untidily over his ears and collar. And he smelled like a cross between rotting fruit and dirty laundry. Also, the man slouched like some great ape. Had Chambliss risen to his full height, he would have easily been four inches taller than Hargrove. Hargrove made a patting gesture with his hand.

“Please Mr. Beaver. Sit. We just want to ask some questions.” Turning to me he said mildly, “Please do not provoke officer Chambliss Ms. Stonewalker, he’s not…himself today.” He winked at me.

Fear washed over me as I realized that they had not asked Beaver’s name and so should not have known it. I could see the same thought going through Beaver’s mind as he sank back into his chair. I wanted to sit too, but not until these two men, (were they men?) were safely off my porch.

Chambliss leered. “Here’s a question Ms. tumbleweed nigger, where is the cat?”

Although this drew a faint expression of distaste from Hargrove, it didn’t faze me. In fact, where was Mosi? “Cat?” I asked politely.

Then I did feel fear.. In a series of minuscule moves the slovenly man’s face became a feral mask. His eyebrows lowered over eyes that reddened and began swelling as his scalp retreated. His long nose wrinkled in a somehow familiar way. The formerly full lips thinned as the corners of his mouth turned down and then widened as the mouth began to gape open revealing sharp, discolored teeth. An inarticulate growl rose in his throat, and fear shot through me as I saw murder form in eyes that were now the size of boiled eggs. A reflection of movement in those eyes behind me that made me turn in time to see a smoky yellow funnel about a foot in diameter rush directly into and through the officer Chambliss thing, turn slightly right, and then correct left on a course that took it through Hargrove.

Though neither man fell, they both staggered. Sparks sputtered briefly from Hargrove’s mouth and eyes. The tunnel rushed upward to spread over the crowd of onlookers hovering there briefly before bursting into an explosion of fine glittering hairs that drifted thickly downward, disappearing when they touched the ground. The shimmering cloud descended into the gawkers looks of confusion replacing various expressions of disbelief, fascination and fear. Agitated movement slowed until the thirty or so people were frozen in various attitudes of arrested movement.

Officer Chambliss, who had bent over when the funnel, which had looked like the trail of an obscenely oily rocket blasted through him straightened slowly looking poleaxed. Beaver reached out a booted foot and shoved him not so gently toward the steps, in which direction he took a few stumbling steps. So doing, he said “Better get going officer Wasichu.”

Beyond this surreal scene the assembled neighbors, passers by and looky loos gave a collective sneeze that seemed to break whatever spell had been holding them locked in immobility . Dumbly, they looked suspiciously at each other, and then jerkily at first, but then with more confidence, resumed their normal rhythm of predictable normal life. No sign of what had just happened seemed evident in their movements or expressions. They just went back to, well, whatever their parts were in the daily dance of life on my street.

Jerking into sudden movement officer Hargrove said “Well, again, thank you for your cooperation Ms. Stonewalker. Here is my card if you you think of anything else.” Taking the proffered card I said, “Thank you officer.” Giving him my best smile. As he started down the steps Chambliss followed more slowly. I noticed that he was tucking his shirt in looking bewildered .

“Ma’am” he said inclining his head towards me.

“Officer.” I said sweetly. “Who were they Akei?” My voice was shaky now.

“Puppets with their strings cut granddaughter. I think the end has begun.” That night neither of us was hungry. I had wanted coffee, but Beaver demurred, saying that I should eat or drink nothing to disturb my sleep, repeating his warning against waking during my vision. So I drank water instead as we watched the news. There was a brief spot on the ‘unexplained loud noise’, but there had been no witnesses. Officer Hargrove made a brief appearance on the news cast explaining that there were many unexplained loud noises reported worldwide these days, and that the SJPD’s investigation had ruled out any terrorist threats. Beaver and I shared a laugh that didn’t really seem to be funny, and I went to bed. Opening the box on the table, one of the stones vibrated noisily, like those pagers they give you at some dining establishments when your order is ready, or your table is available. It quieted at my touch, and I placed it thoughtfully under my pillow. Lying back, I wondered when sleep would come. I never knew.

The post Woman Who Walks On Stones – The Porch appeared first on Tea Party Tribune.


Sat, 10/06/2018 - 10:13am

What does the confirmation of Judge Kavanaugh mean? The end of the gravelings. I’ll explain. As this debate raged on I was binging on TubiTv. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. You thought I was glued to the news services, hanging onto every word that ejaculated from the Democrat’s mouths. Nope! I was watching “Dead Like Me,”and sucking on a beer, or two, or twelve. I found myself fantasizing about Ellen Muth. I imagined meeting her at a party, and after maaaany beers, got her into a side room and . . . well, you know.

Then I had an epiphany. I’m allowed to have those. I’m a fallen Catholic. In the series Ellen is a Grim Reaper. She, and others are assigned to jerk souls out of the soon to be departed before a nasty little group, known as “gravelings” throws a piano on them, or worse.

Now Ellen is cute. The crew she works with is fairly normal, except for Mason. He’s like my son, Timmy. But gravelings! Those nasty little bastards are like a kindergarten class on meth. In one of the final episodes Ellen even kills one. She touched him and he turned into cigar ash, or reasonable facsimile thereof. I can totally understand that because she could burn me down anytime, but I digress.

Now, over three days of TV dinners and beer I was drawn to into this series, searching for the meaning of the universe. You don’t have to be crazy to do that, but it sure helps. Anyway, last night it hit me. Right about the time the news announced that Kavanaugh would probably make it, and I saw this Democrat foaming at the mouth, spitting as he cursed God, America, and mom’s apple pie it hit me! The Democrats are GRAVELINGS!

You cannot look at Dianne Feinstein and not believe that. Sitting up there with that pissed off look on her face as if she’s still upset because a house fell on her sister. Becoming confused, or moreover, CAUGHT in a lie, turning to confer with some bull dyke on her staff who told her that SOMEone on said staff most certainly DID out Doctor Ford on her orders to anyone in the press who had a deadline. She seemed to have forgotten that. Dementia does that, you know. And rambling on for days without one cohesive thought. Feinstein is a graveling!

In the end about the only thing the Democrats on the committee could say was that Kavanaugh wouldn’t make a good judge because after they called him a gang raping pervert for hours he eloquently called them a bunch of assholes. That’s kinda like the last guy standing at the Alamo calling Santa Anna a pepperbelly.

So, what does this upcoming confirmation mean? The re-introduction of God into America and the stock in Claim Jumper Apple Pie going through the roof! The Democrats were trying to preserve the body count down at the old abortion chop shop but Kavanaugh, and his merry majority will soon put that to rest. Wetbacks were preparing to move from the hills around the “five” to the best condos in Murrieta, and laws were going into effect to give free dolls to brides that were to be marrying old men MY age. Well, it’s all over now, and it sure is Monday. You will see California come unhinged and drift out into the ocean. Aloha Salad Bar! You will see ALL the Mexicans learning English, and starting lawn services. And you will see Feinstein turn into cigar ash because President Trump certainly touched her!

This Is Our Wounded Knee

Two Drunk Girls Walked Into a Party

Time For a Little Background on Christine Ford

The Rape Of The Sabine Women

The Arms Dealer – Dearborn

You People!

The Perfect Soldier

The post Gravelings appeared first on Tea Party Tribune.

The Perfect Soldier

Thu, 10/04/2018 - 10:26pm

The Perfect Soldier

A few weeks ago Brother Theo introduced an idea to the Butcher Shop about a new way to communicate to our readers. He was taken by PodCasts. At the same time he was put off by direct politics. The confirmation hearings for the Supreme Court position figures into this.

Although Brother Theo is a classical liberal, as opposed to the Neo-liberals prevalent today, he was aware that during the hearings he learned nothing about Judge Kavanaugh’s positions, or opinions on matters that may come before the Supreme Court. He was very aware of the seriousness of the allegations being made, but the partisan atmosphere, and unprofessional approach of the committee combined with the news services role in providing a soap opera display disappointed him.

He decided to work with audio for a number of reasons. Theo listens to audio books. He drives a truck, and when he comes across a book he wants to read, he listens to it on the road. He is aware that it is extremely difficult to read an article on a pad, or phone while negotiating Austin traffic. What better way, he thought, than to record the piece, and let our readers listen instead, providing information, and safety.

He also opted for a style of delivery. He rejected my more direct approach choosing instead to tell stories with political truths embedded in them so that the listener could reason out the ideas in their own mind. Woman Who Walks On Stones, The Arms Dealer, and The Perfect Soldier all have Easter Eggs embedded within. Political truths and history are richly laced into the stories for anyone who cares to hear.

This story of a soldier is no different. It tells of a simple school yard fight between two boys that turns one into a loser, and another into a soldier. It reaches deep into Americana. It will reveal things about our foreign policy, our history, and us as individuals. We truly hope you enjoy, and learn.


The Perfect Soldier

By Brother Theo

A friend of mine, this writer over in Texas, he asks me to write something about a day, the day he says, that changed the rest of my life. I’m not so sure I’d call him a writer, but he damn sure is a friend, which is why I’m writing this now. But, before I tell you some things I’ve never even told my family, I’m going to say a few things about my life. First, except for the guy who talked me into doing this, I never met anyone who has lived a life like mine. I don’t have a lot of friends, and I make it a point to avoid what our nation has come to refer to as “normal” people.To put it in the words of a former minister of defense in one of those not so sovereign nations south of Panama, “esos idiotas ni siquiera se entiendan”. The fact that only 13 percent of Americans can understand the language of an invading population, well, there’s a little something about yourselves if we’re going to share.

What that woman said right before she was shot by a freedom fighter, read paid hit man here, I should know because I paid him, was “those idiots don’t even understand each other.” She was talking about us. So that’s pretty much it. Americans don’t really understand themselves, and they damn sure don’t understand each other. It happened way sooner than this, but I’m pretty sure the memo from the head shed was sent out when they took the word “indivisible” out of the pledge. See, that’s another thing this head shed, the place where our groupthink comes from in the guise of talking points. If you want to understand my story, you have to understand your own. That’s because they are both about following. After that forcible rape of the Constitution took place in my home state of Florida, A consortium of billionaires bought up nearly every newspaper, radio station, billboard and media outlet that existed. Goodbye rock and roll! See ya diversity! Bye bye rugged independence. Given the dismantling of the Fairness Doctrine, and Billy boy’s offhand squirt that became the Telecommunications act of 1996, the word “news” was converted to the term “infotainment”; which basically means information purported to be news didn’t have to be news at all. So called news could just be somebody’s opinion, repackaged as hard news. Kind of like those weapons of mass destruction over in Iraq, which by the way were there, it’s just that we were the ones who had them.
So, presto! America got a neural upgrade. No need to think for yourselves anymore, the producers and studio execs were taking care of all that.

But, enough about you. Let’s talk about me. I was born poor in rural Florida. I have very few memories that aren’t painted on the canvas of survival. Our farm was middling for poor landholders, one hundred and sixty acres. We raised some chickens, cattle, hogs and geese, and ate anything that dared to ignore the private property signs that were posted everywhere. Every spare minute was spent on our animals and crops. Neither of my folks had a high school education, and beyond the fact that my mother could hit hard, and my father could hit harder, I didn’t know much about either of them. I had two brothers and a sister who left home when she was fourteen by way of flagging down a truck driver on U.S. ninety. I’m guessing my mom was relieved, because she didn’t so much as report the incident to the police. I must say though, my Father and older brother stayed down in the mouth about it for a pretty fair piece. I was big, and I was ignorant. The schools never quite failed me, I did like to read, but my grades were always on the edge. When I got to junior high school my size kept me from being bothered by the bullies, and my status as a “cedar chopper” kept even the least ambitious girls away. All this was for the best, because I had no time to spare due to chores.

I’m not kidding about the work; it the one constant in my life. So, the first thing to know about me, is that unlike most, not all, but most Americans, i know what it’ like to be hungry. I know what it’s like to do your best and get nothing but a beating for your best, and I know how to do it in the midst of a world where everybody seems to be having the time of their lives. It makes a darkness in a boy, and in the darkness many things can grow unseen.

The first thing that happened in my life that pointed me toward that day that would change my life was a different kind of change. For the first time in my life I made a friend. There isn’t any way to tell you what effect this had on me, so I’ll tell you how it happened. It was the third week of my sophomore year in high school Leon High School was the only high school in Tallahassee for whites in those days, and it was huge. This was good, because it’s pretty easy to fly under the radar when there are a lot of trees. But, as anyone who has been to high school can tell you, some trees are taller than others, and on that day, I crashed into the tallest. Sam Yatzee, the largest, most feared man boy at Leon had finally noticed me. As I’ve said, I’m big, and even though I wasn’t as big as Sam, I was big enough to qualify for his trophy wall, and Sam was in a hunting mood.

First he tried a little foreplay, slapping me around and pushing me in front of an ever growing crowd. But I wasn’t having any of it. As I said, my size had kept me out of fights up until then, and between my lack of fighting experience and Sam’s abundance of it, I knew I would get a severe beating. Then he progressed to insults These ranged from calling my mother a whore to expressing his disgust toward cowards who would not fight. He called me a commie (a true insult in the days before we bought all our cell phones and computers from china). He called me a queer, drawing sharp intakes of breath from what was now a mob. Saving the nuclear option for last, he called me a nigger lover, a term that had gotten more than one boy killed in the Deep South. When I refused this bait, unseen hands pushed me from behind and shouts of menace and outrage came from the throat of the beast. Seeing no game to be had Sam put his huge face in mine and said “My daddy told me to drown a litter of kittens this morning, and you know what? They put up more of a fight than you did.”. I’ll never know for sure what happened next, I think it might have been the idea that he was telling the truth, and that he had drowned a litter of kittens that morning, a thought that enraged me.

The next thing I was aware of was that one, I was crying, and Two, I was sitting astride Sams body landing blow after blow on his face. Suddenly the crowd that had been egging on this fight was pulling me off Sam! He got up, face already showing some of the damage that would obliterate his features later, and with a cry of “you sucker punched me!” He was on top of me making ground chuck of my face. I felt my nose break, and warm blood rushed down my throat making me retch. This time there were no helpful hands to drag Sam off my prostrate form. Instead Sam stood up and kicked me hard enough to break two ribs. The sound of the crowd had reached a deafening crescendo so neither of us heard it when there were cries of “look out Sam!”. And when Sam’s size thirteen cowboy boot raised to stomp my face it was with utter amazement that I saw the malevolent mask of his face pushed forward into his chest replaced by a 3 foot long piece of four by four.

The roar of sixty teenage throats screaming for death was abruptly replaced by silence and I clearly heard Sam’s body hit the ground. He fell like a loblolly pine cut at the base. Like a chunk of ice breaking from a larger floe the crowd began to break apart. Strangely, it was the boys closest to the fight that ran first. This seemed to speed the exodus as the mob was sectioned off first, making for less cohesion, a lesson I used to good effect later, and that you, dear reader, should reflect upon much. In less than ninety seconds the crowd had evaporated. The fight, which had taken place on the edge of the school property had left me alone with a large boy I didn’t remember seeing before. Lots of trees, remember? His upper body was heavily muscled, and he bore the marks of a recent acne outbreak on one side of his forehead and cheek. Shifting the four by to his left had, he bent over and gave me his right.

Sam wasn’t dead, which was a good thing, but he never really was Sam again either. Turns out he came from poor too, so the police never really got what you’d call real interested. In those days, boys fought, and boys got hurt. It didn’t hurt any that not one witness to the fight had a clue as to who I, or the other boy was. Between Sam’s bad memory and me staying home to heal for a month the popularity system, which knew nothing of us allowed us to go on as if nothing had happened. That boy and I became best and only friends, a relationship i suspect many people know more about than they would care to admit. Both of us were deeply distrustful of others, and his selfless act allowed me to trust him, and my trust in him gave the same gift.
Over the next two years he gave me a first class military education from Lao Tzu to Marcus Aurelius. His Dad was some kind of high up in politics and education, and he had a better library on war than West Point. I, in turn taught him forestry, animal husbandry and all of the agricultural secrets you can’t find in books. Whe our time for the draft came, his number was high, as he had said it would be. We both knew I would volunteer.

Never let it be said that courage will lead the way to victory. America has picked it’s teeth with the bones of many a courageous enemy. Nor must one be particularly courageous to win a bet, or gain the spoils of war. I’ve never seen a vulture that did not take flight when threatened, but war is about the best thing that ever happened to their kind. After a perfect military record in Vietnam, with many medals won, not by valor, but by reason and strategy, I came back to the states for a while as a Delta Force instructor. I hated it. All the inconvenience of war with nothing to show after our first few outings but waiting. Hell, I was ready to quit after Eagle Claw. So I did. I made my way through one crappy war after another from the Congo to South America where I saw action in practically every country there. Thing is, winning so called wars of revolution in poorly armed, largely untrained armies begins to wear thin for a pro. So I quit again. I know, there’s the Middle East, and, there are true challenges there for a military strategist. The difference there is that that will always be a series of wars about hate. Whichever side wins, its hate that rakes in the chips so, no thanks.

Nowadays, I live on the coasts of Florida. That’s right, I said coasts, as in the gulf and the Atlantic. Mostly I fish, and lately I’ve been writing a historical guide to Florida. Hey, even an old boot needs something to do right?
Oh, hey! I almost forgot! The day that changed my life! I promised, so here it is. It was the day i went to the induction center with my friend. He had come along to see me off. As the moment arrived for me to board the bus I asked him one last time to come with me. He pulled me into a tight hug, something that two guys never did in those days. He held me there as the other men eyed us uneasily. In my ear he said “Deep down inside you know that you are following these others into war. What you also know is that is how war is fought. The way to win is to be apart from the conflict. Never lead, never follow. Just bide your time, pick your shot, and take your winnings home”. Hell, that did more than just change my life, it saved it!

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We Wrestle Not Against Flesh and Blood

Thu, 10/04/2018 - 11:14am

Watching the recent political theater that our ever more divided country serves up as leadership reminds me that the natural man cannot receive the things of God for they’re foolishness to him.  The mockery of the late night political hacks masquerading as comedians or of the not even close to being funny Democrat shills haunting SNL reminds us that weeping may endure for a night but joy comes in the morning.

I wonder if someone came forward and said that Nancy Pelosi sexually abused them when they were a minor but they can’t remember where, or when, how they got there, how they got home, and everyone they said was a witness denied it … do you think the Congressional Ethics Committee would investigate it?  Would the ABCCBSNBCPBSCNNMSNBC Cartel do wall-to-wall panel discussion about the validity of the claims?

As we watch these show trials staged for no other reason than to destroy the reputation and life of a man who the testimony of all who know him say is impeccable don’t lose heart.  What the enemy means for evil God can turn to good.  When we see what appears to be all of the media from New York to Hollywood piling on don’t despair the enemy may come in like a flood but God is well able to lift up a standard just as Moses lifted a serpent in the wilderness.  Look with your spiritual eyes and see the real battle for we don’t wrestle against flesh and blood.  We battle against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age, against spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places.

We’ll never have the strength to stand for what’s right until we hit our knees.  Faith is the answer and prayer is the key.  Forget about the unfairness of it for the fallen world is inherently unfair.  Take your eyes off the here and now and get a view of eternity.  All of this will pass away.  Remember God not only wins in the end He’s won already.  Stop living in the world.  Jesus said we must be born again born from above.  If we confess Him as Lord if we believe God has raised Him from the dead we will be saved.  The moment we do that we enter into His kingdom.  We die to this world and we’re born into the new heaven and the new earth.  And we’ve done all the dying we’ll ever do.  Our body will stop one day but we’ll live for all eternity in Him.

While it may be entertaining and it may make a world of difference here and now all this back and forth between one side and another is merely man re-arranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.  Looking back did it make any difference which side of the deck someone was standing on?  We’re they on the left or the right?  When the ship went down both sides hit the water.

In a hundred years no one will know who we were.  Some descendent may know our name, maybe even where we were born and where we died.  But they won’t know who we are.  In a thousand years no one will even know we were here.  In a hundred thousand years America will have been erased from memory.  But in an eternity from now we who choose to live in Christ will still be praising Him filled with joy and living hope.

The political and social battles of this life may make good TV, they may give us endless hours of animated conversations, and they’ll have an impact on the current course of this fallen world.  But remember they aren’t what they seem.  It isn’t about right versus left.  It’s always about good versus evil, light versus dark, and life versus death.  But never fear Christ is here.  He has won the war and He has told us that “It is finished.”

So accept the victory and stop fighting a battle that’s already been won.

Dr. Owens teaches History, Political Science, and Religion.  He is the Historian of the Future @  © 2018 Contact Dr. Owens [email protected]   Follow Dr. Robert Owens on Facebook or Twitter @ Drrobertowens or visit Dr. Owens Amazon Page / Edited by Dr. Rosalie Owens



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The Details of the Democrats Evil Plan Exposed

Thu, 10/04/2018 - 11:08am

“It’s not her job to corroborate her story” – Debra Katz, Christine Blasey Ford’s attorney

As we all know things are not always what they seem to be on the surface. Such is the case with Dr. Christine Blasey Ford who at last Thursday’s Senate Judiciary Committee hearing…who in the throws of what amounted to caffeine induced shakes, who with her hair constantly falling in her face, and who with a little girl squeaky voice whose tone she carefully modulated depending on which political side of the committee she was addressing…tried to paint herself as a victim of a 36-year old claimed sexual assault by Judge Brett Kavanaugh when the two were in high school.*

And so in a maliciously orchestrated scenario that was egged-on by the Democrats on the committee…Democrats who never asked her any direct questions per se but who one-by-one straight down the line heralded her supposed “bravery” for coming forward with her story…more like heralding her for coming forward with a lie.

But the thing is that Dr. Christine Blasey Ford was no sexual assault survivor of Brett Kavanaugh or possibly of anyone else…but if anything happened at all it probably was just a different teenage boy trying to get to “first” or “second base” as teenage boys have always done and will continue to do…I mean there was not even any clothing removed. Teenage drunkenness and misconduct has been twisted in Dr. Ford’s own mind into attempted rape.

And this woman whom the Democrats have now anointed as the new spokeswoman and “face” for sexual abuse survivors everywhere put on one hell of a performance as Republicans treated her with kid gloves for fear of being labeled as both sexist and overbearing towards a woman who supposedly had gone through so much inner turmoil in order to keep a deep dark secret inside her until she alone felt it was the right time to come forward and do her “civic duty.”

Bravo…and the Oscar goes to Dr. Christine Blasey Ford for a performance of a lifetime but that’s all it was…a performance…for it’s important to remember that Dr. Ford herself stated that she was eventually able to escape before she was raped or worse but that the experience was very traumatic because she felt like she had “no control and was physically dominated.” That is a very liberal stance as it relates to feelings not to the actual physical act of rape itself which showed that neither she nor the Democrats were really interested in getting to the truth of what happened or didn’t happen on the night in question. But it did give the Democrats a tool by which to manipulate a frail easily swayed individual into doing their bidding.

And manipulate Dr. Ford they did as she became the conduit by which the Democrats were able to both slander and defame a good man and hopefully stop Donald Trump from not only stacking the Supreme Court with conservative justices, but by which they could restart the now thanks to Trump stalled fundamental changing of America that Barack HUSSEIN Obama had set in motion. To read more on that please read my Right Side Patriots partner and friend Craig Andresen’s article The Social Reengineering of Our Justice System.

But first let’s start by looking at an all-important timeline and how that timeline was willfully ignored by the media.

Before Christine Blasey Ford got married in 2002 she says she told her husband about a sexual assault that supposedly happened when she was in high school but never told him who did it or the details of exactly what happened. Then in 2012, just as Barack HUSSEIN Obama began his final term in office, Dr. Ford and her husband went into couples therapy…with some claiming for issues relating to alcoholism…where she tells a therapist who shares her leftist anti-Trump political leanings about being sexuality assaulted at a party by someone she knew in high school, but like with her husband she never mentioned any name.

Flash forward to July 2016 when Donald Trump became the Republican nominee for president. And when he did so, much to the utter chagrin of liberals everywhere, Christine Blasey Ford was amongst those who feared that Trump would turn our country hard to the right by picking only pro-lifers if he was given the chance to nominate future Supreme Court justices. And he rightfully stroked those fears when in September 2016 then candidate Trump released his first list of those he would be considering as possible nominees to the High Court if elected. On that list was Neil Gorsuch…who did become the nominee on January 31, 2017 and who ultimately became the justice who would replace Justice Antonin Scalia who had passed away the year before.

Also on that original first list of possibilities of then candidate Trump was Steven Colloton of Iowa, Allison Eid of Colorado, Raymond Gruender of Missouri, Thomas Hardiman of Pennsylvania, Raymond Kethledge of Michigan, Joan Larsen of Michigan, Thomas Lee of Utah, William Pryor of Alabama, David Stras of Minnesota, Diane Sykes of Wisconsin and Don Willett of Texas.

Judge Brett Michael Kavanaugh, a staunch originalist and constitutionalist then sitting on the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit…as you can see was not on then candidate Donald Trump’s original 2016 list of possible SCOTUS nominees but was included on now President Trump’s official November 17, 2017 list after The Heritage Foundation recommend his name be added. And Brett Kavanaugh’s name only appeared on then retiring Justice Anthony Kennedy’s replacement ‘short list’ on July 5, 2018, with his ultimately being announced as the nominee on July 9, 2018.

Now why is this particular timeline so important, because in her interview with the Washington Post, Dr. Christine Blasey Ford stated that she became upset back in September 2016 when she saw Brett Kavanaugh’s name appearing on then candidate Trump’s original list of possible SCOTUS nominees. But how can that be when Brett Kavanaugh’s name was not on now President Trump’s official nominee list until November 17, 2017…a full year after she said she saw it. Meaning if Dr. Ford can lie about something so easily but obviously not looked into, what else is she lying about…how about everything.

“Falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus”…“False in one thing, false in everything.” – common law legal doctrine

Remember, this is the very woman who could not name the exact date when said sexual assault occurred; whose house it was where the supposed assault took place; how she got to and home from said house; and who also admitted that she had been drinking…all that has been twisted by the media, the Democrats, and in Ford’s own mind into attempted rape. And critical to remember is that this woman did not tell anyone the name of who assaulted her until 36 years later when a political opportunity arose for her to help stop Trump’s nominee from being seated on the High Court…a nominee she and her fellow liberals knew would decidedly swing the court to the right for probably decades to come.

And that could not be allowed, and it was at this point that Christine Blasey Ford became but a useful tool to stop Donald Trump and his nominee at any cost. And it all started with a Democrat loyal therapist being able to take a memory of a long ago assault that might or might not have happened and manipulate that memory into a time sensitive weapon to be used against President Trump with an innocent man’s life being thrown to the wolves in a media driven feeding frenzy of Dr. Ford’s and the Democrats doing.

But how did key Democrats accomplish this feat? First let’s remember that Democrats were not happy when Neil Gorsuch made it to the Supreme Court especially since Obama had nominated liberal leaning Merrick Garland after Antonin Scalia’s death. Not happy that Trump was successful in stalling Garland’s Senate confirmation vote until Obama’s term in office ran out with said nomination now legally being cast aside, Democrats see Dr. Ford’s accusation as their last ditch attempt to stall Kavanaugh’s nomination until after the midterms in hopes of their retaking the Senate and then being able to throw out both Kavanaugh’s nomination and any future nominations Trump would make.

As always it’s all about politics…dirty D.C. swamp politics emanating primarily from the left side of the political aisle.

But what exactly would they need to do to now, at the so-called eleventh hour, to stop Brett Kavanaugh’s nomination for it appeared Kavanaugh was poised to get the votes needed to take a seat on the High Court…simply they used the tried and true last minute tactic of fabricating a sex scandal because Democrats know that political sex scandals garner more outage and passion than just about anything else…just ask Billy-Boy Clinton about that.

And so their plan was set into motion…a plan dedicated to stopping Brett Kavanaugh from ever becoming a Supreme Court Justice. But to do so Democrats needed someone to come forward and claim that he had sexually assaulted them with the time frame of when it happened not really mattering, thus leaving the Democrats to start searching through their databases of their supporters and/or financial contributors to see if any had crossed paths with Kavanaugh. And they hit the mark with Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, a registered Democrat, a Hillary supporting pink p****cat hat wearing far left feminist who had also contributed to both the Obama and Hillary campaigns and to the DNC itself. And they also found out in their search that she had been in therapy back in 2012 where she told her therapist that she had been the victim of an unnamed assailant back when she was in high school in Maryland.

Ding, ding, ding…and the bells went off for the Democrats as Trump’s nominee Brett Kavanaugh was also from Maryland, was about the same age as Dr. Ford and who by luck went to a ‘sister’ high school of his, and whose mother had ruled in a foreclosure case involved the Blasey family, which while she ruled in their favor still cost them a great deal of money to settle. And from there it was easy pickings to manipulate and possibly pay off an emotionally unstable woman…emotionally unstable no matter how many degrees she has…to a point where a previously unnamed assailant morphed in her mind into Trump’s Republican nominee to the Supreme Court…one Brett Kavanaugh.

And Dianne Feinstein herself has her hands all over this what amounts to a witch hunt for besides her broken promise to keep Dr. Ford’s infamous letter confidential, it was she who helped Dr. Ford secure her big shot D.C. lawyers. But doesn’t that in itself seem odd as Dr. Ford’s own two brothers are both respected attorney’s in the Washington D.C. area…maybe they know the truth about their sister and were wise enough not to get involved…as maybe they know about her taking part in crackpot feminist and anti-Trump marches…and maybe they know that the rumors going around about their sister having “issues” as far back as childhood are true.

And so the woman who couldn’t even remember also sending the New York Time a copy of the infamous letter that started the witch hunt just three short weeks ago, in reality did not come off at the hearing as someone credible in my eyes contrary to what many conservative talking heads are continuing to say if for no other reason than they’re afraid of ‘outing’ a woman as a liar on national television…especially a woman who claims to be a sexual assault “survivor.”

But the bottom line to me is this…then Christine ‘Chrissy’ Blasey was most definitely not…I repeat not…sexually assaulted by Brett Kavanaugh, and if any boy did assault her back then what happened was not rape but was at best teenage drunkenness and bad behavior. And really, Brett Kavanaugh has already gone through six thorough F.B.I. investigations over the years as he rose up through the ranks of our judicial system…including a critical investigation that allowed him to be privy to America’s nuclear code…and now he must go through a seventh all because a lying woman with an agenda has been manipulated to do the Democrats bidding.

If Dr. Christine Blasey Ford is a victim of anything, she’s a victim of her own twisted delusions and of being manipulated into becoming “the face” of a misplaced political agenda that will not serve her, our county, or true victims of real sexual assault well.

And let’s not forget the yet to be mentioned future victims of Dr. Ford’s lie and the Democrats witch hunt…our husbands, fathers, brothers, nephews, and sons as any woman or girl can now make up a story that can neither be proved or disproved all in an attempt to completely ruin those above stated lives. And while these misguided Democrat sorts thinks this empowers women, all it does is place guilt on the innocent before anything even happens.

But most importantly of all right now, let it be known that Judge Brett Kavanaugh is no sexual predator and never was and to state otherwise is to dismiss the notion that the F.B.I. actually did its job when investigating him the first six times they did so. The only true victim here is the good judge whose career and reputation has been irrevocably harmed and his family forever hurt by the truly evil sorts who comprise today’s Democrat party. Judge Brett Kavanaugh deserves his seat on the Supreme Court…it’s now up to the Republicans to make sure he gets that seat for if they don’t the midterm results just might not be to their or our liking.

*Prosecutor Rachel Mitchell’s all-important MEMO regarding the Kavanaugh/Ford hearing…a must read.

Copyright @ 2018 Diane Sori / The Patriot Factor / All Rights Reserved.

For more political commentary please visit my RIGHT SIDE PATRIOTS partner Craig Andresen’s blog The National Patriot to read his latest article The Social Reengineering of Our Justice System.


Today, Tuesday, October 2nd from 7 to 9pm EST on American Political RadioRIGHT SIDE PATRIOTS Craig Andresen and Diane Sori discuss ‘The Details of the Democrats Evil Plan Exposed;’ ‘The Social Reengineering of Our Justice System;’ and important news of the day.

Hope you can tune in at:
…or on Tune-In at:

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You People!

Wed, 10/03/2018 - 8:32pm

You People! The American public, this week, got a good, up close and personal look at the United States Senate. In accordance I am going to address You People in the Senate. I am using that term because it’s politically incorrect, racist, and downright insulting to the new royalty You People have placed above, and beyond the huddled masses, yearning to make a living.

We look, and hope for bipartisan cooperation in our government that will enact legislation that will benefit as many Americans as humanly possible. We are a Republic, not a democracy. That means we elect representatives that we trust will convey our desires to Washington. Since it is physically impossible to squeeze three hundred million of us into the Senate Chamber, we pick one hundred of you to be our voice. To bring it down to a manageable number. You People have done that job well. You boiled it down to the interests of one hundred people. YOU People!

I refuse to elaborate on last weeks hearing, I use that word loosely. It wasn’t a hearing, it was a feeding frenzy. What I will say is that You People had the battle lines drawn before the first contestant even raised his/her right hand. When the games began, all protocol was tossed to the wayside. Interruption was the order of the day. If it had been a court of law most of you would have been held in contempt. If it had been Judge Roy Bean’s Court you would have been hung!

What ensued was a oxymoron. With all the politely worded apologies, the character, and integrity of both witnesses was impugned. Nothing substantial came out, and no minds were changed. Forget the nomination, we learned nothing from this hearing except that United States Senators don’t have the cognitive abilities of a part time high school girl taking an order at McDonalds!

You people stumbled through the hearing with one side trying to ignore witnesses and rush to confirmation, while the other side tried to divert, stall, and end the entire process while nothing was done to achieve a logical conclusion based on the nominee’s judicial abilities.The nominee’s court record was swept under the rug as high school beer busts became the order of the day. If You People behaved like that in a call center you would have been written up by your manager, and sent for retraining.

You People did not serve the American people this week. You People showed your collective asses. Instead of educated, revealing questions, You People attacked the witnesses with such veracity that they both behaved out of character. In both their defenses, to quote the words of Winston Churchill, “You cannot reason with a tiger when your head is in its mouth!”

No matter how the confirmation vote goes it will be a lie because You People spoke it. Whatever comes out, it will not serve the interest of the American people because You People aren’t interested in the interests of the American people. You are interested in propagating the interests of the one hundred.

All of your fancy words, and elegant speeches will not hide what we all saw last week. Will this affect the midterm? Who knows. It doesn’t matter. We’ll still have You People calling the shots. One from column A or one from column B. It’s all fried rice in the end. As I’ve said before, there is a great cosmic pendulum. It swings in history, life, and politics. It never sits in the center.

When the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, December 6, 1941, the Japanese were basing their success on the laid back twenties and thirties generation in America. The “Flappers.” They gauged us by what they saw at Berkeley. They made a critical mistake. Even a good dog has a right to bite, and bite we did. We had to invent the atom bomb to kill enough Japanese to appease our anger.

Then came the baby boom, and the fifties. Doctor Spock, may he smoke a turd in hell, taught us that reasoning with children was far better than spanking. These children spilled into the streets, smoked everything that would burn, and screwing anything that had a heartbeat, and a few things that didn’t. Then, they ran for Congress, and THAT ended up being You People, the very nincompoops who conducted that hearing last week. The mentors of the Millennials, the laziest, freakiest, most dumbed down generation since Adam ate apple pie!

Remember that pendulum! Right now, as I type, there is a ten year old little girl. She is hearing the news, and not buying any of it. She is among the first generation to be completely bathed in the internet age. The first generation that feels weird opening a book. The first generation that thinks it knows it all, because it probably DOES. They have to. They have had only themselves because all moral, cognitive thought has long since been banished from the human equation.

As she hears the LBTGQ talk about fifty-seven genders she can take a pee and know it’s all a lie. When she sees Bruce Gender she turns on her iTunes, listens to “Dude Looks Like A Lady” and laughs her juvenile ass off. As she heard your so called hearing she knew the senators had long past lived past their usefulness. She reads the labels on her food because she knows the food is all flavored with herbicides, it’s just the amount is all that matters.

In twenty years she will run for Congress. The “Z” generation, as it’s known is simple. If the Russian President threatens us, they’ll just drop a nuclear bomb on the Kremlin. If the Muslims knock down a business center in New York, they’ll just blow up the Kabba. If illegals stream over the border, they’ll just reinstitute slavery.

Absurd, you say? You People have redefined absurdity and inflicted upon the American people the biggest absurdity of them all. YOURSELVES! As we watch as the country spins out of control, and wonder if anything can be done, that little girl sits, and waits and counts the years. Because of people like Doctor Spock, and “Protective Services,” and police screaming, “Show me your hands,” she knows she’s on her own, and her only allegiance is to others of her generation. She’ll show her hand, with the middle finger sticking straight up! She has one level or another of Reactive Attachment Disorder, but it’s not a disorder. It’s the method for survival. She will separate the sheep from the goats. Then she will make the logical choice because she has the conscience of a rather mature tomato. And we are the choice! If you are over thirty you will see what her choice will be. Prepare yourselves, You People. Your bunks are waiting.

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¡Ay, Caramba! US Illegal Count Just Doubled

Wed, 10/03/2018 - 10:29am

I should have known something was up when soccer team owners felt confident enough to put the squeeze on cities to help foot the bill for new stadiums.

Ballerina ball holds the record for the longest period of being The Next Big Thing, without ever becoming the next big thing. Starting back in the 60’s the sport was supposed to sweep across America. Sure little kids played, but most of them left Scooby Doo and soccer behind when they grew up.

Rick McKee, The Augusta Chronicle, GA

That’s why for the past 50 years mayors would sooner subsidize the WNBA than a ‘footie’ team.

Now the Atlantic complains Cincinnati, Detroit, Nashville and Sacramento are all willing to pony up between $25 million and $75 million tax dollars to subsidize their local fútbol stadium.

Colin Kaepernick — founder of Millionaires Against Jim Crow — may have driven football fans out of NFL stadiums, but I don’t think the alienated were so desperate for a dose of patriotism that they would attend a game just to watch illegals wave Mexico’s flag.

This new popularity didn’t originate domestically. Just as the vast majority of soccer balls are made overseas and imported into the US, soccer fans are bred overseas and imported, assuming ICE is looking the other way. Quartz discovered the last time soccer was this popular was during the 1920’s when waves of immigrants came to take factory jobs citizens didn’t want to perform for Bologna wages.

The foreign–born population was nearly 14 percent, a hard number because none of those immigrants were ‘hiding in the shadows.’ Today’s number is also supposed to be 14 percent, but the number is soft like my daughter’s elementary–school soccer ball. The real foreign–born number is so much larger it inspires rich capitalists to demand tax dollars to subsidize their hobby.

Two Yale professors recently completed a study that undermines all the numbers the nice men at the Chamber of Commerce have used to lull the citizen population to sleep. Edward Kaplan and Jonathan Feinstein were skeptical of population estimates for the number of illegals in the US. They believed the 11 million number, was too large and only excited MAGA deplorables.

These academics were convinced a more rigorous analysis would give a greatly reduced total.

Yale Insights reports the team, along with Mohammad Fazel–Zarandi, began with “parameters intentionally aimed at producing an extremely conservative estimate.” Kaplan was astonished by the result, “Instead of a number which was smaller, we got a number that was 50 percent higher.”

“After running 1,000,000 simulations of the model, the researchers’ 95% probability range is 16 million to 29 million, with 22.1 million as the mean (or average).” This total is twice as large as the generally–accepted figure and was arrived at through a conservative approach.

This means the US has imported the equivalent population of Honduras, El Salvador and Nicaragua, if you accept the average, and if you’re a pessimist you can add Paraguay to the total.

It’s a testimony to the intellectual integrity of the Yale team that the research was published, instead of being given a decent, Christian burial. The only reason the team isn’t currently asking Sen. Ted Cruz for suggestions on safe places to eat is because the dishonest Opposition Media has taken it upon themselves to inter the findings.

Little India may have covered the heck out of the groundbreaking report, along with Fox News and the Washington Times, but there was zero mention in the Washington Post, the failing New York Times, the Wall Street Journal or any of the TV networks.

And no wonder, when you consider the implications. The number doesn’t mean just the population of illegal aliens in the US today is wrong by at least a factor of two, it means all the other numbers and estimates derived from the original faulty number are also wrong by a factor of two or more.

Here are only a handful of the costs and burdens illegals impose on citizen taxpayers that should be revised sharply upward.

The estimated $11.9 billion in yearly healthcare cost that taxpayers must cover might be $24 billion.

The $135 billion in federal, state and local taxpayer dollars that’s spent on illegals each year might be $270 billion.

The 4.2 million illegal alien children crowding our schools might be 8.4 million.

And the 1.8 million DACA illegals demanding citizenship in return for their crime might be 3.6 million.

Compared to those numbers, $75 million to subside a sport that snuck into the country on the backs of illegals looks like a bargain. The future of North America may indeed be found inside a subsidized soccer stadium, but if conservatives don’t wake up, it won’t be the future of the United States.

Rick McKee, The Augusta Chronicle, GA

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The Arms Dealer – Dearborn

Tue, 10/02/2018 - 11:33pm

The Arms Dealer Dearborn

by Brother Theo

I remember the day I learned the most important lesson of my life the first day of school in Dearborn, Michigan. It was, as the Hoi polloi say, a day that changed the rest of my life. I had just turned thirteen, and my family had moved from Cedar Rapids Iowa to Dearborn Michigan. Personally, I hated it. And why shouldn’t I? My dad had been an executive in an accounting department at Kellogg’s, and we lived in a nice house. It was a nice neighborhood too, and there were lots of kids my age, or close to my age living there, and most of them were my friends. It was great! My friends and I played baseball nearly every Saturday during school when the weather was nice (couldn’t play in the winter much, because of the clothes. Try to play winter baseball in Cedar Rapids in baseball clothes and you’d freeze your acorns off, as my uncle Wally used to say.) But nearly every day during summer, it was game on. And the truth is, We had a pretty good team.

Some of the fathers came and coached. Some guy at Kellogg’s even bought us some good uniforms, you know, the kind the pros wear? That way when we rode our Schwinns to the crappy neighborhoods like hells angels in formation to play ball we’d look good. Forget that, we looked great, like a division of Panzers rolling into some Polish slum. Mostly we’d play ball with the kids whose dads worked in the manufacturing and warehouse divisions of Kellogg’s along with the families of paper mill workers, truck drivers and other workers Plato referred to as deltas and epsilons, and uncle Wally referred to as the losers. He wasn’t uncle Wally, but sometimes Plato could put the nail right in it.

Anyway, even though we usually kicked those losers asses (a lot of them couldn’t put together a pickup game without using girls and little kids!), every once in a while we got beat. Some of those black kids could sure play ball. That’s something I learned when we got to Dearborn too, because it seemed to me that nearly everybody in Dearborn was black. At least the ones that went to my school.

See, when we moved to Michigan it was because my dad got a promotion, and he got that promotion on account of the guy whose desk chair Pop’s butt was soon to be warming had croaked, and they needed dad there yesterday. Which is on account of why Uncle Wally stayed there in Cedar Rapids to sell the old homestead, and we had to hoof it quick to a rented house in Dearborn that was in a neighborhood that, like Dearborn itself, was an armpit. It was so bad in that first house that my mom had to put down boards for us to walk on until she had some people in to scrub the cooties off the floor! And the school? All I can say is two things about the school; one is, don’t give me your sob stories about prison, because that school, Edison intermediate school, was where kids went to train for prison. Our basketball team was even called the Gladiators! I always tell people that I learned everything important in gladiator school, and that’s not far from the truth.

The second thing is, that school is where I learned that Plato didn’t make wide enough use of the alphabet. Where had American DNA gone so wrong? None of these people were ever going to do anything but employ cops and prison guards, and half the girls there had another future convict bun in the oven!

So there I was a soft white rich kid in a predominantly black junior high school fresh out of the sixth grade. Fresh meat. I would learn what that meant too. Ok, so my life changing moment. You should give me a sign when I get off topic like that. Sometimes I sound like that peckerwood, Brother Theo as he calls himself, down in Texas.

What happened is this: there was this older guy named Devon, need I mention he was black? He’s going with this girl his own age, seventeen I’m pretty sure, who’s going to high school over at the Carla B. Ford school for disadvantaged girls. Sounded like a real homecoming queen. I saw her later, and she scared me worse than Devon. Soon it came to pass that Devon and a few of his buddies scared the bejesus out of me the second week I landed in that cesspool. I had my head in my locker between Mrs. Murray’s English class and Mr. Eppinger’s math snooze when it happened. I wasn’t paying any attention to what was happening because between the boredom of Mrs Murray’s voice, which was like verbal chloroform, and the terror I was feeling what with being a piece on a giant Jumanji board, I didn’t realize until too late that big hands were ripping everything out of my locker. I was then violently shoved into that small space. I heard the padlock click shut. It sounded like a prison door
slamming shut behind me. I was trapped upside down in my locker, folded in half like a taco! I fought the feeling of being suffocated alive by thinking how proud Mrs. Murray would be of my comprehension of the word claustrophobic. I listened to the sounds outside in the hallway; the hallway full of people just a few inches away. If anyone noticed they didn’t say anything. Upside down and facing the wall like I was, I couldn’t budge, or cry out! Heck, it was everything I could do to breathe. I listened as the noises in the hallways dwindled. I heard the sharp metallic buzz summoning all us kids to class. I heard the late bell and wondered if I would be in trouble. I heard my uncle Wally’s voice say in my head, “Of course you’re in trouble bucko, you’re walled up just like that brainless idiot in that story you like called “The Cask Of The Amontillado” and the boys who put you there are blacker than Othello ever dreamed of being”. That was a strange but significant after thought.

See, in my whole life, I had never even seen a black person. Between one thing and another I guess I never got around to it. So when we moved to Dearborn, I was like those animals on the Galápagos Islands that had never seen a human. Like the dodo bird, I didn’t know enough to be afraid. I guess when we did move, a change took place in the house we were living in, and without knowing what was happening, the seeds of racism were receiving their first rainfall. Today, there would be a torrent. After they took everything from my locker up to the second floor boys room and divided it up, the boys, men really, came back, pried me out of my locker, took everything from my pockets and told me to follow them.

It was the first day of my life I ever played hooky from school, and beneath the electric current of fear I felt (I was pretty sure even uncle Wally would be wetting his pants in this situation), I felt the first tendrils of excitement which accompany acts of conspiratorial malice. In time this excitement would grow, and become a part of my character, becoming a reward in and of itself. Sitting inside a short outlet tunnel of the concrete drainage ditch that ran through this ritzy part of my new hometown I met Devon and his gang.

And they WERE a gang, something that had only bounced around in my teenage skull as an amorphous combination of the cast of West Side Story, and those old Batman villains with their legions of henchmen. But surrounding me on that day, the day that changed my life, were five of the scariest looking thugs that I might have imagined during one of those terror filled walks I sometimes made in the darkness on my way home from a late baseball practice; the ones where I would imagine the wolf man treading on soundless, deformed paws behind me. It’s lips would be pulled back over horrible fangs, and rending claws would be reaching for my vulnerable neck. It would be identical to the plastic model of that Hollywood horror which resided on the stand right next to my bed! On those nights I could swear I heard it’s hungry growl and the skin on my arms and back would stipple with goose bumps as I broke into a full run that did not slow until the front door of my house was safely shut behind me.

But then no one like Devon or his minions ever lived in my old neighborhood in Cedar Rapids. Hell, they couldn’t have gotten within miles of that neighborhood, but here I was, squatting in their neighborhood like one of the three little pigs, with five big bad wolves surrounding me.

“Now, I ‘magine you sittin’ there thinkin’ me and Smiley and the rest of us done you wrong today” Devon said this leaning forward on his corded forearms. Squatting on his haunches before me, his shadow enveloped me completely, and I noticed that bristly hairs sprouted from his forearms in a way that reminded me of the clumps of thistles that grew in the unused lots all over this part of Dearborn. Smiley, a name I never once saw him earn, nodded sympathetically at these words and the others looked at me concernedly.

I wanted to say “What, me? Not at all, why would I feel that way?” But my tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of my mouth by a big old glob of sticky peanut butter. And even if I could have said anything I wouldn’t have, because some primitive instinct made me be still, like a rabbit under the hawk’s shadow.

Devon’s merciless eyes searched mine, and in that long, endless moment I realized I was on trial for my life. “What’s the matter little peckerwood? Cat got yo’ tongue?”

Not knowing what to say I shrugged and managed to say, “I guess I don’t talk much.”

Devon stared at me in disbelief and then threw back his head laughing so uproariously that the sound bounced up and down the cement walls of the riverbed, but it’s echoes pulled the last of his humor with them. “That be the
first time I ever hear of a peckerwood that ain’t got much to say”. The rest of the gang chuckled. After another searching gaze he stood up. Gesturing for me to stand, he put a heavy arm on my shoulder, and we walked back toward the school.

On the way he explained three things to me. The first was that I wasn’t getting any of my stuff back. The second was that he was going to take anything he wanted from me every day from now on; in fact, I had better find him every morning so he could take it. “That what you white folk call robbin’ when a black man do it, but taxin’ when a white man do it” he explained. The third thing he said was what changed me forever. Not all at once you see, but slow like, as Devon would have said. What Devon said to me was this, as we arrived at the boundary of the school property. “One thing you can count on fo’ sure the rest of yo’ life. If a man can hurt you, he jabbed my chest with a thick forefinger for emphasis, and get hisself ahead in the doin’ of it, he gonna do it certain as I’ll whup yo’ ass the first time you show up with nothin’ fo’ me!”

I nodded dumbly as his gang started forward again. Holding me in place by my shirttail, he waited until they were out of sight. Inclining his head toward the school he said, “ The lie is that you get your learning in there. The truth is, that’s where they tame you, take away your imagination, show you your place, make you the way they want you to be.”

Relaxing his grip on my shirttail he said, “Out here, there isn’t any law a man can’t learn to avoid. In there,” he nodded toward the school again. “it’s ‘crime doesn’t pay,’ and ‘do unto others as you would have them do to you. They’ll teach you that there is a line in front of everything you want, and that you have to stand in it until you get to the head; meanwhile, all the people THEY want, the RIGHT people, well they get cuts. You hearing me?”

Utterly fascinated by his change from racial stereotype to something I had yet to classify, I forgot to be afraid. Time went by, as it does in every life, and here’s what happened. Within a month my family relocated into what would become West Bloomfield. It was kind of a green zone in the Detroit area. During that month I dutifully brought money and things like watches and small bits of jewelry to Devon, and, on his advice to other members of the gang.

“Not too much.” he said to me when he mentioned it, “Just enough to make them forget the difference between black and white.” He also arranged for me to receive several beatings until I learned the difference between victor and victim. I also learned that crime indeed DOES pay, and that selling insurance against loss was a big earner too.

Using his street patois whenever we were within earshot of others he taught me things like, “Firs’ you send in a ringuh, you tell that nigga to go wild. Tell him to break the place up, and then steal somepin’. Not any somepin’, but somepin’ you already scoped out, somepin’ high dollah. Bes’ you use somebody owes you, or maybe somebody you got a grip around his neck; maybe you give him a little dope. But you takes that somepin’ you sent him in fo’. Then, you shows up and says lawdy lawdy, looky here, what done happened here? Then you helps the mark up an’ brush him off, offer to call John laws. While he tryin’ to get his head straight, you says you know somebody can make sure this don’t never happen again, but it costs them twenty a week. Most of the time, they give it up smooth.”

After we moved I would regularly go out with Devon and his gang. I learned the finer points of robbery, strong arming, extortion and best of all, what the black market was, and how to profit from it. To my parents horror, I volunteered for service in Vietnam. Devon and I went in together, and between his fine tuned killing skills, and my parents connections to Vice President Ford, I became first a lieutenant and got Devon promoted to first sergeant. He was actually a great soldier when we weren’t busy stealing, extorting and conning our way through the war. We volunteered for and got high value target assignments, allowing us to make great connections with enemy agents and spooks from the agency. We sent more dope home taped to the back of Kodak photos than other smugglers were in boxes. By the time we got out, I was a light colonel and Devon was a sergeant major. But most importantly, I got a gig in the pentagon as a kind of go between with the agency. Toward the end of the war there were literally hundreds of thousands of munitions and arms blanketing the countryside in Vietnam, and helpfully, Devon and I developed recovery units, effectively stealing thousands of machine guns, small arms, grenades, missiles, and even some mechanized infantry, along with tons of ammunition. Getting our share to a safe place was easy.
Eventually we sold off the whole stash to whoever paid the most, even spreading some of it around dear old Dearborn. I live a pretty good life these days, I don’t sell guns now, but influence and money. Devon tried to go back to the streets and wound up controlling most of the heroin trade in Detroit until he caught cold from a bullet. I think maybe he wanted it that way. For my part, I’ll keep stealing the American dream.

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The Rape Of The Sabine Women

Mon, 10/01/2018 - 4:19pm

Take a close look at the feature picture, the Rape Of The Sabine Women. Are you offended? Save your fork. It gets better. I’d like to begin by saying that I don’t have a thin skin. I’ve been writing about politics virtually all of my life, and especially the last eight years. Doc Greene drafted me from my back porch and I began to do pieces for his show on Raging Elephants which he still feeds from American Voice Radio, and where I do a weekly segment. I’m well versed in trapping people in their own words, angering them into stupid pronouncements, and supporting any position, if I agree with it or not. Welcome to the world do op/ed journalism. Pleased to meet you. Won’t you guess my name.

Even though I usually show mercy on “civilians,” over the weekend, with a sufficient supply of libations, I had intense discussions with several people about the current confirmation process going on in Washington. They were nicely opinionated. I mean, they had CNN to back them up. Now, I always approach such things lightly. I input some humor to disarm the opponent, try to keep the language reasonably clean so as to stay out of Facebook Jail, and pull out when the conversation gets redundant or too abusive. Pulling out is not very manly, I know, but after what I do them on line during a debate I would not want to leave any Cyber DNA behind. But this weekend I hung in there, however, after all the threats, and I learned some things. What I learned was that most Americans don’t have any sense. Statements like that are going to rub some people the wrong way, but they need to be rubbed if our Republic is going to survive. We need to not base our conclusions on CNN, MSNBC, and yes, the Holy Grail of the conservatives, the much venerated Fox News Network. The American public is at present, no different than the Nazi rallies, all saluting and shouting mantras fed to them by the party, ever which party that may be.

Last night I penned an article for the Trib, which topped the front page this morning, and went into distribution. In “Two Drunk Girls Walked Into A Party” as usual, I mixed in humor, but also a lot of good, Texas common sense that I learned from MY grandmother. My grandfather was a Mississippi Riverboat gambler. My Uncles were pretty fair hold up men, small stores mainly, and two of them joined the army to avoid prosecution. Man’s gotta do something for a living. All these people knew the cold, hard facts of life and one of those facts was that if you are a teenage girl, and you show up at a beer bust full of teenage boys after dark, and subsequently get stupid enough to drink with them then you will most likely not be involved in reciting the Rosary. Though, in the words of the prophet John Fogarty, Jody might get religion all night long. Now, I’m sorry to be the first one to tell you young virgins that, but having been in many such prayer sessions, myself, I can attest that a form of communion is pretty much in the air at such events.

The members of the committee all know this. Even Dianne Feinstein, though her recollection may be a bit more remote than others. Those hypocrites sitting up there, peering over their glasses sacramoniously, acting like this is the crime of the century need to take that two by four out of their eye before they try to remove a thirty-six year old speck from anyone else’s! They take the moral high ground, of which there is none in Washington DC, it’s a swamp, and expound upon virtues that have been long gone since Booth blew Lincoln’s brains out , if they were ever really there at all. The virtues, not Lincoln’s brains.The #METOO movement is all very fine, and gets good mileage, but in the long run compared to the NFL nobody cares, baby. These are simple truths YOUR grandmother should have taught YOU.

That just made you mad, didn’t it? It’s easier to get mad, and quote sound bites you heard from Bill Mahr than to listen, and reason things out. I just attacked the Holy of Holies. Thousands of abused women and girls crying for justice. Well, let me clue you in. Even truckers out there who have picked up tons of teenage runaways at truck stops will stiffen in righteous indignation as long as their wives are looking at them. Little different down at the Flying J at three AM. Not that truckers are bad. They are human! On the road, alone, for days at a time, pick up a hitchhiker who takes a few sips out of a bottle, and crawls back in the bunk for the night. Next day you slip her a twenty dollar bill at the next truck stop and you part friends. He won’t change her, and she won’t change him. And the Judicial Committee won’t change human nature. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the real world of boys and girls. I still remember, at thirteen years old, slipping under a slide at the playground and kissing Pam Dent. It was only a smack, but I knew that if I could figure this out everything else was gonna be alright!

Judge Kavanaugh did not tie Ms Ford to a bed, buck naked, and sodomize her. We all know that. She admits she was drunk. That’s no huge sin. She was a kid. But so was Kavanaugh. She put herself into that situation. No one grabbed her off the street, shoved her into a van, and took her to a remote barn. No matter what occurred, when she decided to leave she just left. Three or four boys there, and at least one other girl, and no one stopped her. Her friend didn’t see fit to leave with her. If the so called attack had been soooo brutal, why didn’t “friend” chastise Kavanaugh or anybody else, but instead remained at the party. In my opinion Christine Ford was what is known as a “wall flower.” And that’s cool. Wall Flowers end up pushing their glasses back up their noses and giving speeches at graduation. Good little girls go to heaven. Bad little girls get to go everywhere else.

Sexual relations really are “Fifty Shades of Grey.” And fifty shades of black, white, pink, yellow, red, or any other color a man can talk into a bed. If that were not true then that book would not be a best seller. To inhibit sexuality unreasonably is like a dam holding back water. If you let a little water out occasionally then things go according to plan, but if you stop it up eventually it WILL get out with disastrous consequences. By the way, eighty percent of our dams are on that junction in the country right now.

Back in the Middle Ages some Pope came up with the cockamamie idea that priests should not be married, and remain celibate. That worked for up to about a week, and then they started screwing little girls, little boys, and just about anything else that couldn’t walk, run, or fly away, BUT they didn’t get married. Praise the Lawd!

Men and boys, and yes, women and girls react to social stimulus. The drive to procreate is second only to hunger. If you want to take a moral high ground form #NOTME and put controls on the huge porn industry bleeding out of Hollywood that puts thoughts in young peoples’ heads they’d never have learned down on the farm or even at home in a flat in New York City. No less than Ted Bundy, just hours before his execution, laid his victim’s bodies squarely at the feet of the porn industry.

This is human nature, and human nature is not far removed from monkey nature. Religion, law, and morals will only take us so far. This having been said a moral atmosphere in that party that night prevailed. Did the kids drink? Yes they did. Was there most likely some touching going on? Most likely. Was anyone beaten, raped, or killed? You know the answer.

So, why do otherwise civilized people communicating on social media reduce themselves to the level of monkeys when discussing these things? You must remember that you, and I do NOT know all the facts. You know what your flavor of news service TELLS you to know, and I know what my supporters tell me. The barometer is Grandmother’s common sense. Stating groundless “facts” will not sway anyone’s opinion. Calling Judge Kavanuagh a pervert does not necessarily make it so. Calling Ms Ford a victim does not canonize her. Verily, verily, I say unto thee, both of these people were human that night so long ago and remain so until this day!

Solutions and social progress are achieved by civil discourse among persons with differing opinions. The framers of the constitution most likely couldn’t agree on lunch, but they penned a document so strong it endures to this day. When it was all done they all supported President Washington, even if they disagreed with him on certain policies. And yes, those guys had most likely been to parties with young girls. Let us reason together. It will make none of us any difference if Brett Kavanuagh is seated on the Supreme Court. I dare say that none of you will closely follow his career, or even understand his opinions. What matters is that we come through as reasonable human beings, conscious of our human frailties and more than that, our human virtues. We must end this tribalism imposed upon us by huge entertainment entities dedicated to their enrichment, and our detriment. Extend the olive branch of understanding or consign America to the rubbish heap of history. Don’t you realize that we are not yet three hundred years old. It took Rome that long just to fall. If we fall now, in a thousand years we won’t be a footnote in a child’s history book, and if we are it will be a funny one at that. We have all sinned. We have all fallen short of the glory.

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Two Drunk Girls Walked Into a Party

Mon, 10/01/2018 - 12:53am

I don’t normally engage in Facebook debates, but I did today. Why? Well, it was Sunday, and I was drinking martinis. Facebook debates go nowhere. They’re like having your brother in law over for Thanksgiving dinner. But, I jumped into one. I use Facebook for one ramp out of many. I do NOT put my eggs in the basket of some kid out in California who got lucky with a dating site.

So, what was so interesting that I felt like it would brighten my cocktail? The confirmation of a Supreme Court justice. Now THAT’S exciting. About as exciting as taking your sister to the senior prom, unless your from Arkansas of course. First and foremost Brett Kavanuagh is about as interesting as vanilla ice cream. He went to a Catholic School, saved all his calendars and never changed wives. I seriously didn’t think they made those anymore.

Now what do you think the big deal is? Back in 2016 the Democratic Party lost their entire ass. Check the papers. I’m telling you the truth. So they had to make a big fuss to distract from the fact that they have screwed the pooch and they seize upon what? The boring confirmation hearing of a middle of the road judge who never broke an egg.

How far did they dig? A party between a bunch of drunk high school kids. Dianne Feinstein was who done it. That’s because she hasn’t been laid since the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Look at her. If that facelift knot comes loose she’ll have to unbutton her blouse to brush her teeth. But she’s the moral compass for the committee. Democrat! Dead baby in every pot. Gay sex taught to third graders. Running her home state on hot checks. Yeah, HER!

Here’s the situation. Two girls decide to go to a party and get drunk with a bunch of boys. What could possibly go wrong? I mean, they’re every bit of fifteen, sixteen? So they’re romping around in the bed, and by and by SOMEone touches a pootie poo. I’m SURE that’s where no man has gone before. Girl gets upset and skedaddles out the door, leaving her friend behind who continues to party her pretty little ass off. Thirty six years later she don’t remember nothing. That’s because she ain’t telling the MAN nothing. I like her.

So time and tears go by and there’s this hearing. What to do? Democrats gotta have something. So little Miss Holier Than Thou gives this letter to Senator Reptile Bait for safe keeping. Why? If she didn’t want anyone to hear about it, why write it down? Of course the senator promised to keep it a secret, which she did right up until the right moment when she she let it leak to anyone who’d listen, and then stood back snake amazed as the story in the papers.

Here comes Pound Me Too. I’m old school. Back in my day the # sign meant “pound” so I spell it out. Hillary slips in. She knows all about screwing drunk young girls. Ford spills her guts but her witnesses can’t remember even being at that party, BUT we gotta have an investigation. Then The whole thing is put on hold while the FBI gets the facts. Hope they do better than they did when the school teacher took off with one of his students a few years back. A hippy caught him.

All of this ended up on Facebook. And, like a fool, I got involved. I knew better, but the whole thing was so stupid, and I was drunk so I’m like, “What the hell?” I came on like a gentleman. Someone suggested that I be sodomized by a priest. I prefer nuns. Then someone asked about the time I was molested. Well, there was this time with Sally Taylor, but I’m not sure who molested who. Now this is serious political discussion on Facebook, folks. These are the people who voted for Hillary.

Ok, I egged them on. I mean, when you run into that much stupid, it’s Sunday, and you got martinis? And they always come at you saying you have problems. I DO have problems. All my high school drunk dates kept their mouths shut, so what’s YOUR problem?

Democrats! These are your representatives. You PAY these people. They are actually spending YOUR money investigating a high school beer party. Nobody was raped. Nobody got a DWI. Nobody got a parking ticket. Wise up. I know you hate Trump. I got that. Deal with it. I’m sorry if Ms Ford is upset because her friend was prettier than her. And, from what I’ve seen, time has not been kind to her. Let it go. If Kavanaugh don’t get in somebody else will. Know what’ll happen the next day? Two Drunk Girls Walked Into a party. Happens all the time.

The post Two Drunk Girls Walked Into a Party appeared first on Tea Party Tribune.


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