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The Happening Guy

Mon, 10/22/2018 - 9:47am

Everybody wants to get next to a “Happening Guy.” My manager in Nashville told me that over twenty-five years ago. It basically boils down to the herd instinct. When you see a head of gazelles, flock of birds, or a pack of wolves one is always in front, and for the rest the view never changes. So it is with politics.

When you go to the zoo and marvel or even laugh at the monkey cage do not forget that like the monkeys, we are primates, too. We just wear clothes . . . most of the time. Seems that our leaders spend a lot of their time trying to portray themselves as the more sophisticated monkey, the Happening Guy.

When Moses came down from the mount what were the most important commandments? Don’t give me that stuff about how they were all equal. Mainly, they involved not stealing, screwing your neighbor’s wife or eating your cousins. Kinda shows you what God thinks about us. And we had to be told that. We couldn’t figure it out for ourselves.

All politics is imagery. It’s always been that way, ain’t nothing new. Imagery projected to bring out emotions is very powerful. Take the Cruz/Beto contest for instance . Ted probably sleeps in a suit, while Beto wouldn’t be caught dead in one. Both contending for the Happening Guy crown on November 6th. Ted sets himself out as a conservative Republican who dresses respectfully, speaks well, and IS a senator at present. Beto displays the “Mr. Smith goes to Washington” persona. No tie, top button undone, and reaches out to the working man with issues most common folk cannot possibly understand. Oh, and he shift changes to a Mexican the closer to the Valley he gets which is a bit like a Japanese Elvis impersonator.

Beto made a lot of hay while Ted was shackled to that Kavanaugh mess, but the very second he could come home the polls flipped like a sixteen year old cheerleader at a homecoming game. His main commercial now is lamenting the plight of the poor school ma’arms who teach liberal sex techniques to third graders. He goes on about vouchers. Ted wants vouchers because most thinking Texans would rather NOT have a thoroughly indoctrinated gay communist growing up in their home. Answer? Home schooling! Home schooling withOUT having to explain to the CPS why you don’t like public schools. Ted is a Happening Guy!

Practically everything else that proceeds from Beto’s mouth is Democrat gobbity-goop. Ted just runs on his record. Still, you must factor in the Happening Guy effect. I’ve told you that most voters are conservative, be they Republican or Democrat i.e. they will conservatively vote the same way over and over again. Combine that with the power of incumbency and the scales tip decidedly toward whomever is in office at the present time. Score one for Ted.

HowEVER, there is a wild card, kinda like the Green Bastard on a Roulette table. I’ve told you in the past that most elections run pretty close. Two or three percentage points apart. A preacher figured this out over a hundred years ago and his theory put Al Capone in the liquor business. The women’s suffrage movement had been struggling for decades to get prohibition passed. They raided saloons, petitioned congress and gave rallies to whomever was sober enough to listen. Working the entire voting populace, trying for that fifty-one percent that would sober up the other forty-nine. The preacher just concentrated on the undecideds. The measly ten percent, too stupid to make up their minds until they identified the Happening Guy. Unfortunately for them Capone turned out to be that guy.

The Democrats are going to turn out in force for this election. They are going to simply HAVE to take the House of Representatives if they ever hope to keep killing babies and selling body parts. I know Ted is in the senate, but you must understand that we cannot be complacent about this election. No part of it. If we are to Make America Great Again we simply cannot lose Congress to a bunch of flipped out hippies. That’s what Beto really is, and that’s NOT a Happening Guy! Oh, one more thing. Cruz for President. Write that down. There’s gonna be a quiz in 2024.

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Sharon – The Death of Joley

Sun, 10/21/2018 - 10:13am


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!”

“What was terrible, John? That a little girl died?”

“Sharon, I’m not in the mood for theology right now.”

She slid over beside him. Putting her arms around him she stroked his hair, “No, preacher boy, I’m not talking to you about theology. This is life. We all die. God himself suffered on the cross. And he did it so that little girl could go to Heaven.”

John was crying openly by now, “But she was just a child. Why didn’t God do a miracle and save her?”

“It was her time, John. Look at it from God’s view. The difference between her time and yours is only a few years. Perhaps just a few minutes. She was just ready for Heaven a little quicker than you, that’s all.”

He sat up straight, dried his eyes and said, “How can you just sit there, Sharon, and talk about Heaven, after such a scene as that?”

“How can you not talk about Heaven, after such a scene as that? Heaven is all that makes it make any sense at all! The person who doesn’t believe in the hope of Heaven sees a scene like that, and it’s insanity. The God of the universe would not allow Joley to suffer any more. She’d used up that body, and now, right now, she has a new form. she’s free of pain, and she’s home. And it’s not just a nice thought John, it’s real! That’s supposed to be the purpose of your whole life, John. Preparing people for Heaven! And then, you get mad when someone goes! That little girl has done no wrong. She’s been ill for so long, and now she’s free. Medical science did all it could, and God just said, ‘No.’ John, you’ve just held the hand of a saint! She’s in Heaven, right now. We won this one. I’m sorry to see my friend Joley die, just like you are, but look at what has happened. Joley had no more options left in this world, and she left us so much on her way out. And, in a little while, we’ll both see her again. I don’t know how many sick calls you’ve made in your ministerial career, but I’m willing to bet that you’re not going to quickly forget that little girl in that apartment, are you?”

“I’m sorry. I just got over wrought, that’s all. Just like the man in the wheelchair the first night of the revival. Some things are beyond me.”

“It’s not all hallelujahs, and revivals, John. Some things are beyond us all. Life is hard. Satan made sure of that. Jesus came to show us the victory that can be ours. That little girl didn’t know anything about theology. She knew that ‘Holy Joe’ was a good man. She knew that you were like him, and that the last thing she saw in this world was you praying the Rosary with her, as she died. Let’s go back to the church.”

The walk back was without much talk. John had been badly shaken by what he’d seen. He also felt ashamed. Ashamed that he had wanted so much of Sharon’s time, when the little girl had needed it so badly. What if he’d been sitting in the garden talking with her, and Michelle had come up and told them that Joley had died without seeing the lady she so badly wanted to meet?

He did ask her, “Where was the priest? It was so important to give the last rites to a cat, what about that little girl?”

“Most Catholics never get the sacrament of the sick. And, John, in the final analysis, we all die alone, don’t we?”

John, you put all of your faith in a book. The Bible is the Holy Scripture, but it was never meant to be used as a road map. God cannot, will not be reduced to a book. Call it the Bible, or the Koran, or the Book of Mormon, he will not be locked down. He reveals truth to all men. From the Dalai Lama to the Pope. All truth comes from God. You cannot exclude any truth from your life, no matter where you find it. You may find it in your King James, or you may find it in the writings of a priest, or you may find it in the face of a dying child.”

The post Sharon – The Death of Joley appeared first on Tea Party Tribune.

The Revelation

Sat, 10/20/2018 - 9:14am

Part VI The Revelation
By Brother Theo

As my head touched my pillow I was swept instantly into my mother’s arms. The familiar smells of cooking, stale gin and the scent of the lilac perfume she wore mixed with another smell. My mother had her own smell, one I had become familiar with as one of my first memories, like the feel of her ‘every day’ dress, which was made of muslin, or the unique mask that was her face. These sensations, along with the sound of her voice, overwhelmed me in an instant. These things could not be! My mother had not held me in her arms since that fate filled day when she had driven my Akei from our home. These were impressions I had not experienced in so long that I only had words to describe them. My senses no longer knew this experience. And yet, here I was, being crushed in my mother’s embrace. And I was being crushed. Somehow my mother’s body had gained superhuman strength. Although she was weeping hot tears of rage, her words came through teeth that ground together in fury.

“Why?” She gritted, “Why did you let him do it? Why did you leave me, your MOTHER to be this, this thing?” My mother, now enormous, gave me a tremendous shake that would have bounced my head off the headboard; but I had no headboard. I slept on a waterbed I had bought it from the people who were moving out of the home I rented before I moved in. It was heavy, and a lot of trouble to move, so I got it cheap, but it had no headboard. I was held immovable in her arms now, my left arm trapped between my body and her viselike arm, my right arm extended upward as her right arm wrapped under it so that her right hand could pull my head forward and away. It felt as if she might snap my neck, or back. She had buried her face in my neck, and her words became muffled snarls as she bore in with her chin, a form of violence I have seen many women use.

“Shima” I struggled to say, “Shima, please!”

“It’s the seed you see? I am not your Shima girl. I would have been, I wanted to be, but you wouldn’t have that would you?” Each sentence brought a tightening of her now unbearable embrace. Each tightening of her grip brought me a little further off the bed. I could see us now, just barely, in the small mirror of my vanity. My mothers back was to my view, and I hung helplessly in her arms. My face was red, my hair wild, with fine strands of it stuck to my swollen lips as I gasped vainly for air. My right hand stuck up incongruously, as if I were seeking permission to ask some last question before I died and could ask no more. And then, she bit me. Not a bite that’s intention was to inflict pain, but a bite filled with hatred and spite. And my mothers teeth were healthy and strong. She had bitten me between my neck and my shoulder on that ridge of muscle known as the trapezius. Along with the fire that ran up and exploded in my brain came the rush of understanding that this was my vision.

Beaver had been right, this was no dream. The blood that ran in a rill down my side and was soaking the the sheets of my childhood bed was real. I nearly lost consciousness when she screamed an almost corporeal wail of malice between her masticating jaws that felt like poison being first injected, and then spreading throughout my body like venom. Suddenly thrusting me back from her body she turned and looked into the mirror. She did not look at herself, but at me. The sight of her face, lips painted red like those of a child playing with stolen lipstick, her chin painted red as some of the young men did ceremonially, made it impossible for me to take the breath my body so desperately needed. Hair wild, thick brows lowered, she looked at me with depthless hatred; and smiled a wicked smile.Then I was spinning wildly as I rose toward the ceiling, the ceiling rising with me until the scene below me grew small, like those miniature towns people sometimes put up at Christmas. And then, I knew no more.

When next I opened my eyes I was sitting in the most comfortable chair I had ever sat in. My hand went immediately to the bite and found…nothing. Nothing but the long faded scar of a childhood injury, sustained, by a fall from a mesa I had foolishly climbed when I was very young. Next to me there rose a wall of velvet that ended about for feet above my head. Although the room was dark, I could sense it’s enormity, and something more; a sense of ceremony and purpose that made the air dense with portent, and I found myself holding my breath. Sudden light sprang to life on a diaz beside what I perceived to be a semicircle of rather ordinary movie theater seats. Quite suddenly a huge tiger dressed in a cutaway tuxedo floated down upon the diaz as ballerinas will sometimes do in ballets, although, I could see no wire. He looked like an eighteen hundred pound Tony the Tiger vampire, or the Esso tiger in a tux. There were two dagger like canines which graced his face the way a circus ringmasters mustachios might lend a handsome face a look of character. The points of these fangs rested regally just below the tufted white fur of his chin.

“Tonight, I pay a fifth of my debt, Stonewalker,” he said, bowing slightly. Although the stage had to be over a hundred yards away I heard him perfectly. “Tonight I bring no happiness, no joy. But let it be remembered that the repayment of debt does not always bring happiness. Remember, your gift was blood. In a sense this gift is about blood.”

Donning his top hat and throwing the cane high into the air the big cat ran around the raised stage so fast that it looked as if he might outrun his stripes. Everywhere his huge feet touched the stage, something appeared. Before I could make out what I was looking at, my brain supplied the missing pieces and I knew that place. It was a bedroom, shabby, but clean. A queen size bed with no head or footboards stood flush to one wall. Squeezed between the bed and the far wall was a small bedside table with a lamp on it. An open book, ”Rolling Thunder Speaks” was open beside the lamp. Against the wall at the foot of the bed was an antique dresser with a fine mirror. The dresser was flawless and looked as out of place as an opera patron standing in bread line. I remembered that dresser well, but in another bedroom. It was my mother’s prize possession.

Beside the dresser was a shabby wicker hamper, and beside the hamper, against the lateral wall was a chest of drawers with the second drawer standing open. Inside the drawer was a pillow, a child’s blanket, and…a baby. The child was tiny, a primi by it’s looks. The baby had the intelligent dark eyes sometimes given to premature babies. The door to the room was open, and a woman was frozen in the act of entering. Bowing low and doffing his hat as he did, the huge animal leapt high into the air and caught the walking stick as it reached the apex of it’s flight. A spark of orange light appeared where both had been, and streaked toward
me, ending in a soft plosive sound as something very heavy landed in the chair next to me. All of this happened while I was still rubbing the place where I had been bitten just seconds ago. Or had it been years ago? Had I been bitten, or had I fallen down the mesa as my mother had told me? I stopped rubbing the spot and looked up at the enormous cat, who was in turn looking down at me.

“Well,” I said sardonically, “that happened. Or not.”

His genial expression did not change, and he said “Oh it happened all right. Hurt huh?”

What, the bite, or being lied to?”

He sniffed and looked away. “Being lied to girl. As biting goes you humans are pretty much amateurs. But that hate venom…” his gaze turned serious. “That’s what this vision is all about Mandi” He made my gift name sound like a family name. “Lies and the people who tell them. I know you’ve been asking yourself, why this is happening, all these impossible things; miracles and the old ones come back home.”

His voice trailed off. “But this is not our home child.” He looked up and I could see that the roof had disappeared, and the sky was so filled with the distant stars that it seemed as if we were hanging upside down looking down at the surface of an impossibly dark planet strewn with the glittering troves of millions of years of looting treasure. Here and there some points of light were larger than others, and yet others shone with a defiant light that demanded you look upon it only.

“That is our home Mandi” he growled softly and we are here instead of there because of this” he inclined his massive head toward the distant stage. “Because of rules that are rules however far away they be.”

“Why are you telling me this now? And why hasn’t Beaver told me?”

“Would you have believed him?” He sounded faintly amused. “I think not. Ask yourself again when the stones have told you all. Besides, like all your kind you are under a…limitation you might say.”

I stayed silent gazing at the tableau on the stage. After a while he said “You are unable to speak of these things. Most of you forget them, the way you forgot how you got that scar.” I had forgotten. How was that even possible? I even remembered falling down the mesa. “People like you and Beaver can remember, but you absolutely won’t be able to speak of what you see regardless of how strong is your will to do so.” I dragged my gaze back to his.

“Why can people like me and Beaver remember?”

Moving only his eyes, he indicated upward. “The trip from here to there is…arduous. Also, time behaves differently there than it does here. Things, important things might well be much changed when I return home.” He sighed and the wind of it ruffled my hair.

“Why come then?” Now it was his turn to offer a sardonic grin. It did not look particularly friendly.

After a moment he said,”I could no more refuse the call to come than you will be able to speak of this. I, am ‘catness’. The embodiment of all things cat. One of your philosophers, Plato spoke of it long ago. Another of your people had the good sense to write it down.”

I arched an eyebrow. “My people?”

The huge cat leaned forward and sniffed her. This made Mandi’s hair rise and fall. He said from deep in his chest. “You all smell the same to me. All people are your people child.” Facing forward he leaned back to look at the diaz. “Now watch human, for time grows short, even in this place, and there is much yet to do.”

Instead of leaning back, Mandi leaned forward. Even though the distance was obviously too great to see well, every detail stood out crisply. As if she had been suddenly switched on, the woman frozen in mid-stride suddenly went into motion walking into the room as if she had never stopped. The baby was issuing short wails that had been stilled for more than twenty five years.What had been, was again! I was looking at something that had happened, and then been made motionless long ago. It made me think of the westward tide of the white man, the Middle Ages, the mammoths; all stilled in mid stride and waiting for…what? As provocative as that thought was, it did nothing to cushion the shock of what I saw next. The woman who entered the room was my abizhi, or my father’s sister.

“But my abizhi has no children.” I said.

Cutting me short the cat rumbled, “The child is you Mandi.” Now I sat back in my seat. My aunt stood over the child seeming indecisive for a moment. Then, with her left hand she reached down for…for me? The admonition to not awaken during the vision sent an icy dagger of fear into my heart. What if I awakened here, to live out forever with my infant self? I suppressed a shiver that turned into outright shaking as my aunt’s right hand shot forward with lightning speed to slam the drawer shut, barely missing deadly harm to the baby. Before I could take this in the woman’s left had grasped her right and she fell to the floor in what was obviously a deadly contest between her two halves. For the next three minutes I watched as my abizhi‘ s right hand tried to injure me, while her left hand waged a desperate battle to prevent it. The scene froze on a frame where the baby that was me was half out of the drawer, and my aunts left hand was stopped in the act of slamming her right hand against the night table. I was motionless for a long time. Made still, like the people on the motionless tableau by shock and disbelief. In time the voice of the great cat penetrated my fugue. “It’s called Alien Hand child. It is very rare, which is good for people, but not for you. ‘Your people’ thought it was a possession by evil spirits. Beaver knew what it was, but he was not believed. White men from far away came and took her. She was your mother Mandi.”

I felt something drip from the end of my nose and realized I was crying. Continuing gently the cat said, “Her husband, your father, left her a short time after it began. At first the Child Protective people claimed you, but soon Beaver’s son, whose wife had given them no children adopted you. It was his wish that you grow up knowing who you were, but his wife wanted none of that, and insisted you be raised believing that she was your real mother. When your mother killed herself in a faraway place even dull witted humans could see it pleased her. It did not please us. Your abizhi insisted you be raised Mormon, which is why you moved to another reservation. Your uncle, the man you think of as your father was weak. This also did not please us, as Beaver grows old, and soon we will have need of another…” he stopped here, clearly uncomfortable with the words available to choose from.

“Cats paw?” I asked sarcastically. In all my time before and since I have never seen a cat look ashamed. I’ve seen the expression on almost every one of god’s creatures faces, but never a cat. Except this one time. Wordlessly he placed his massive paw onto my hand. I cannot describe how it felt. But I can tell you as feelings go, it was in the top ten. The huge pads, the great tufts if downy fur that grew between them, the hidden menace of claws easily nine inches long, retracted so that only the points could be felt.

“You can no more escape what you are than I,” he rumbled. And for an instant I felt a closer kinship with this infinitely alien creature than I have ever felt with anyone. He was a God, and I but a dirt poor red woman, but we both had to do what we had to do. In the next instant I was in my bedroom. I saw a police cruiser go by slowly through the thin curtains of my bedroom window. I sat on the edge of my bed and put my hand under the pillow, but the stone was gone to…wherever it belonged. I lay down and thought of sleep, and it came to me willingly this time, and thankfully unaccompanied by dreams.

Rosary

Deceptively Blue Skies

Lemme Tell Ya ‘Bout Ahab the Arab Shiek Of The Burning Oil

NIce Dreams

Hold My Beer and Watch This!

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Hold My Beer and Watch This!

Fri, 10/19/2018 - 10:18am

Hold my beer and watch this! Every once in a while I get really riled up. First off, I gotta tell you, I don’t like the Middle East. I know, I know, I’m a bigot and a racist . . . DEAL with it! Saudi Arabia has been drunk on oil since forEVER, which, as a Texan is especially repugnant to me. Barrels of oil, not beer. Muslims don’t drink. . . in public. They gotta slip off to Dubai to do that. Allah can’t seem ‘em there. Anyway, I grew up driving through East Texas watching the oil derricks NOT pump oil or beer. They must have fixed the motors since January, 2017 because suddenly they’re going up and down again, but that’s none of my business.

History lesson: What started WWI? The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria-Hungary. Now, without fear of contradiction I can tell you right now that eighty year old Emma and her twin sister Gertrude in Lampasas, Texas didn’t give two shyts about the Archduke or his whole freaking family. But, apparently Europe DID. Oh, FYI, there’s another Middle Eastern area that needs to be disemboweled with a wooden spoon, in my opinion, but that’s for another article. Back to the Middle East, and more specifically, Saudi Arabia.

Every time I think about Saudi Arabia I remember a video I watched where a woman, appropriately attired in that sack cloth they have to wear, got her head cleaved off by this fat bastard dressed in HIS Sunday sheets. Events like that didn’t bother Obama at all as he bowed and groveled before the “King.” It certainly didn’t bother Hillary as she was too busy filling up city parks with bodies, and Bill . . .well, let’s just say he was busy with bodies of his own, shall we?

So, back to business. Ever hear of the straw that broke the camel’s back? Camel, I like that. Appropriate! Well, just like the Archduke we have stumbled upon just such a straw. Let’s just admit right up front that President Trump has issues with the press. That having been said I can’t find one incident where he cut off fingers, beat any reporters to death, and then carved up the body. Well, Saudi Arabia DID just that. AND, in perfect form, his Excellency, the Monkeysama, declared, “I wasn’t wid dem brothas!” Thus said the King of the Quickie Marts.

So now we are on the brink of WWIII. Over what! Do you know how long it would take to put Saudi Arabia out of business. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes? The Ronald Reagan could do it on a half a tank of gas. We already know they can’t fly and land an airplane, I mean, look at 9/11. Oh, my bad. You thought them was Mormons flying them there airplanes, didn’t you? Nope! Saudis under the direction of Saudi Arabia’s favorite son. Osama Bin (gone) Laden!

If we back off now we will just empower this “N” word rich rouge government that much more. We GOT the oil. We don’t need theirs. We also have a whole bunch of pissed off Jews, and as a matter of fact, SAUDIS who’d just love to give the “Royal” family a taste of their own dates.

They killed three thousand Americans in 2001, and it didn’t stop one drop of oil. While the towers were still smoldering the tankers were steaming straight through the Straight of Hormuz, with the protection of the US Navy, heading for Baytown, Texas to further undermine the economy of the United States and reinforce our dependence on Saudi oil! Always nice to know what you’re worth. A gallon of gas! Three thousand gallons to be exact! With all of this it seems impossible to think the death of one reporter will change our course, but just keep thinking about that archduke. In my humble opinion the world is about to say, “Hold my beer, and watch THIS!”

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The Continuing Tale Of Jerimiah Johnson

Thu, 10/18/2018 - 10:41am

About ten miles north of Layton, Utah lives Jerimiah Joseph Brigham Young Johnson. He generates his own power, draws water from a well, never cuts his hair, and has a truck that through the grace of God, still runs. In his basement there is a two year supply of preserved foods, a lot purchased from the Bishop’s store, but a goodly portion put up by his good wife, Emily, and her three “sisters,” preserved in the time honored canning pot method her grandmother taught her. There is enough food to last the family for two years, but with peach preserves and cases of Joseph Smith instant potatoes the family has up to fifty years to begin consumption. The family has two guns. A single barrel twelve gauge shotgun loaded with bird shot for shooting small critters, and a lever action Winchester for shooting big critters, all of which Emily will cook up, can, or jerk. Aside from some other things Jerimiah is a sidewalk soapbox preacher looking forward to the end of the world. He doesn’t stand out up there because all his neighbors are just about as weirded out as he is. Under the NDAA Jerimiah is a terrorist of the ninth order with no constitutional rights.

The NDAA started out as most governmental boondoggles do. An overreaction to some perceived threat to the populace which had to be addressed. Just like marijuana. The government figured that smoking joints would bring the end of all civilization so they filled up the prisons with potheads. Canada just legalized it. The trouble with government mandates is that they never UNmandate anything. Pass a law against marijuana, declare a war on drugs, sell guns to the newly formed and highly successful cartels. Uh, drugs won folks.

The NDAA was the knee jerk reaction to all them Arab Fellers terrorizing Wall Street, and making the white folk Ill at ease. We got the Patriot Act. Government agencies almost never reflect what the name implies. Patriot Act, National Defense Authorization Act, Child Protective Services. Then they head lickity split for the absurd. What was intended to keep Ahmed Mohammed from boarding a plane with a briefcase full of C4 ends up getting young girls stripped by the TSA in a private viewing. Nice work if you can get it. And it’s the LAW!

So here we are at a junction. The NDAA is coming up for a look-see before Congress. These guys and gals who most recently tried to figure out what to do with a drunk girl at a party will put their collective intellects to trying to work around that nasty ol’ 4th amendment. Good luck! They haven’t figured out the 2nd yet, and it’s only got one sentence and a comma. The comma’s what done it. Sometimes a comma is just a comma. And you’re PAYING these people folks!

I know I was reaching a bit with the story of Jerimiah at the beginning of this article, but understand this. The business model of government is to do anything without having to resort to work. It’s much easier to sit up there in Congress and discuss thirty-six year old beer parties than to fix a sink, or serve a meal, or see the kids off to school. But they’re not a bit shy because Jerimiah doesn’t want any part of their dog and pony show, and don’t mind saying it. And Jerimiah would come screaming down out of those mountains to stand with you . . . will you stand with him? Well, of course you won’t. Because you’re a “Patriot!”

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NIce Dreams

Wed, 10/17/2018 - 10:15am

Canadians had Nice Dreams last night. Canadians have always been laid back, but last night they became the first nation of credibility to legalize the herb superb, marijuana. Thus they will become the largest supplier to the United States, replacing Mexico. I find it interesting that the signing of the trade agreement with America will come after the national Canadian pot party.

The American theory of Nice Dreams being the gateway to harder drugs is so old that it has a beard. Beard, pot, but I digress. The law being a product of the early part of the 20th century, grass has held its own for close to a hundred years. The idea was that one puff would lead to wild sex parties where girls threw off their clothes, jumped into pools, and had crazy orgies with whomever. I wonder what the problem was?

Canadians in prison for illegal dreams will be able to apply for a pardon. “Dude! I’d like to leave now.” This May leave a lot of guards all dressed up and nowhere to go. Canada is a unique country. They have gun control with no national protest. I can’t recall any mass shootings up there, but then it’s too cold to draw much of a crowd for anything. The population hovers around the southern border. That would be like the US population clustered along the Gulf of Mexico. If Canada had ever had a civil war the south WOULD have won because that’s where everyone lives. Canada has no problem with global warming.

Canadians have always been basically nice people, and with the influx of Nice Dreams they won’t give a “sheeeit!” Did you ever wonder why they didn’t get involved in the American Revolution? It’s simple. It’s was so cold up there they NEEDED the tea! Texas has the Texas Rangers who went into Louisiana and shot Bonnie and Clyde. The Canadians have the Royal Canadian Mounted Police who will go to Miami to serve a parking ticket.

So now all these friendly laid back white folks are gathered around the campfire, and everybody’s high to quote John Denver. California is gonna have to up their game if they’re gonna beat this. But, you know, Canadians aren’t weird. They’re fairly conservative. I’ll have to check, but I don’t think they have any ghettos. Maybe Detroit, which they wisely positioned below the border. How does that grab you? Referring to America as “south of the border.” Kinda makes you think, doesn’t it?

Largely white population, little crime, stays out of everybody’s business, and now they’re firing up a joint. Nice Dreams for everyone. Back in the day it was mandatory for farmers in the young United States to grow a certain amount of hemp, the plant having several uses. Along about that time the phrase “American Dream” came into play. American Dream, Nice Dreams . . . Makes you put it all into perspective.

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Lemme Tell Ya ‘Bout Ahab the Arab Shiek Of The Burning Oil

Tue, 10/16/2018 - 12:29pm

The Kingdom of the HookNose tribe strikes again! Saudi Arabia has been rolling sevens ever since they knocked the Twin Towers down, and they show no inclination of letting up now. What does a country with a worse human rights record than Nero do as a follow up from 9/11? Why, beat an American journalist to death for calling them the HookNosed bastards that they are!

With Obama and George (Texaco) Bush in office business was good. Texas oil wells had rusting locks on them. OPEC called the shots, and EVERYBODY had a Mercedes and a couple dozen five year old wives. Oh, my bad. The King and family had all those things. The people of Saudi Arabia had the same ol’ camel crap they always had since Mohammed foreclosed on the Kabba. Interesting observation: English queens dress in purple robes, Saudi queens dress in tents, but I digress.

President Trump strives to make America great again. Part of that formula is to make America INDEPENDENT again. The very first proclamation coming from the American Congress was The Declaration of Independence. This flies in the face of the New Word Order which gives us Europe to support like a bastard child left on our doorstep, or their first cousins, Saudi Arabia.

Saudi Arabia has no military might. Wanna know why we fought the Gulf war? Because Saddam was about to have his way with all those guys in Saudi wearing dresses. Looking back we might have left well enough alone. What would have happened? Well, Saddam would’ve got rich, sold us as much oil as he could float over, and the biggest exporter of terrorism would be a footnote in the history books. Muslims would still be praying five times a day, Syria would not be in a civil war, Iran would be on notice BIG time, and ISIS would be some hottie ancient Egyptian goddess. There’s fifty cents worth of international politics straight from Austin.

The arrival of the Saudi “royal” family on the international scene was a little bit like Jed Clampett and family arriving in Beverly Hills. They’re refined royalty you say? DUDE! They just beat a reporter to death and cut his body up to take out with the trash! And the “King’s” official answer to the accusation? “I wasn’t wid dem brothas!” Sand Negro PLEASE!

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, we should pull out, be done with, and leave alone anything east of the east coast of the United States. Mind our own business, pump our own oil, and put history and civics back in our public schools. Prayer would be nice too. We do good just getting along with other cultures on this continent. Forget everybody else. America for Americans, Texas for Texans, and all for the glory of God. OUR God. Become that city on a hill, a big hill, with Texas Rangers all over the bottom. MAGA!

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Deceptively Blue Skies

Mon, 10/15/2018 - 6:26am

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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Rosary

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?

Hurricane

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!

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Hurricane

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.

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Gravelings

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.

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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!

The post The Perfect Soldier appeared first on Tea Party Tribune.

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