sunset from behind the wire

sunset from behind the wire

Monday, August 3, 2015

Made from REAL Lions?

The Nestle Lion Bar

Made from real lions?  Maybe you should be the judge. Everyone wonders what will become of Cecil, the lion that a dentist killed in Zimbabwe (formerly Rhodesia). Is he being rendered down into my favorite confection or are they serving lion burgers at a roadside stand? 

Difficult to say. I leave it in the court of public opinion.

Congenital Liar

A walk down memory lane (NY Times). Columnist William Safire called Hillary a "congenital liar". If she only told as many lies as the number of women who husband Bill banged while married to her, it would be a very long list indeed. 

Obama wasn't the cause of American decline, he was merely an emblem of it. Hillary Clinton would clearly be worse. How much worse she'd be than Obama is difficult to measure. Since Obama is clearly the very worst president in American history, Hillary is likely to be "worser" -- we're going to need to create an entirely new vocabulary.

The thought of the portly lesbian waddling around in her polyester pantsuit (and comfortable shoes), "leading the free world" is frightening.

Once Hillary is elected, she can bury the scandals, wrapped in the cloak of national security.

Sunday, August 2, 2015

Cecile vs Cecil

Cecile Richards
Death Merchant
Cecile Richards, president of the Planned Parenthood Federation of America has been criticizing lawmakers for passing a 20-week abortion ban.

Last May, on the two-year anniversary of the conviction of infamous abortion doctor Kermit Gosnell, the U.S. House passed the Pain-Capable Unborn Child Protection Act, which would ban abortions after nearly five months.

Back in May 2015 we didn't know that Ms. Richards' comments were likely made to protect the bottom line of Planned Parenthood, which has been selling the body parts of harvested babies for profit. Let's face it, a fully mature baby has more fully mature (and more valuable) organs than one that was recently conceived. When you're in the business of death, it makes sense to make death make money for you.

The late Cecil (the lion)
International outrage followed the harvesting of Cecil-the-Lion for fun and profit by an American dentist. Some found it ironic that there was significantly more international outrage at one dead lion (regrettable though it was) than 50 million babies, killed by Planned Parenthood since 1973. Others were criticized for pointing out that the most dangerous place for a black man to be in New York City is in the womb. 

Would there be outrage if somebody -- maybe Cecile Richards, who has a lot of experience marketing organs harvested from babies, went into the business of marketing harvested organs from lions? Ok, let's make it fair -- marketing organs from unborn lions.

I'm only asking the question.

Cecile, job opportunity for when your executive position at Planned Parenthood is eliminated. Buy, sell and trade fetal lion organs.

Saturday, August 1, 2015

Chickenshit Navy

No, it's not the last straw, but it's really close to the last damned straw. When Abdulazeez attacked the US Military recruiting station in Tennessee,  a US Marine (deceased) and a US Naval Officer (still alive) returned fire. The Obamanation wants to see that officer cashiered.
(Allen West) As reported ten days ago by Western Journalism, “A Navy officer and Marine reportedly returned fire at the shooter who killed five service members in Chattanooga, Tenn., even though current policy does not permit military members to carry firearms on facilities such as those where the attack occurred.

"The cold-blooded assault killed four Marines and one active-duty Navy reservist. The center’s commanding officer, Lt. Cmdr. Timothy White, used his personal firearm to engage the shooter during the attack, according to sources quoted in the Navy Times. A report from The Washington Post said that one of the Marines killed in the shooting might have been carrying a 9 mm Glock and possibly returned fire on the shooter.

"At the time, Western Journalism wrote, Lt. Cmdr. White could face disciplinary action for violating policy about possessing a weapon on the facility that was supposedly a gun-free zone."
We are going to end his career and court-martial a man who drew his sidearm to protect his command, and the assigned Sailors and Marines. The Navy should give him the Bronze Star with a V device...and would in another, saner world.
I can only hope that LCDR White used JiHAWG ammunition when he shot the terrorist, but I digress.
Please allow me to frame this in an even more disturbing way. The big effort within the Navy now is to work to lift the ban on transgender sailors serving on active duty. There is big preoccupation with that at the moment in the Pentagon with pressure from the White House to make it happen. 

Thus the Obamanation is laid bare and thus the matter is made complete. 

Truth: LCDR Timothy White is better off out of the Navy. It's no place for warriors, though the transgendered and homosexual crowd can find a comfortable home there. 

There's a lot of outrageous conduct from Washington DC. 50 million babies dead, body parts for sale to the highest bidder, and a complicit government. Military officer cashiered for killing a terrorist who wiped out his command. Green light to Iran to push toward nuclear weapons, igniting a nuclear weapons race in the Middle East, etc. You wonder if there's a limit. Every single time I think that we have reached the limit, there is more.

Finding Miss Right

Finding Miss Right

A fictional short

Governor Warren Barshall, sat behind the table with his Stetson hat on the tabletop in front of him. Cigarette burns and gouges pocked the table’s linoleum surface. His fastidiously maintained moustache contrasted the deep lines and crags in his tanned face. His dark eyes were set under heavy eyebrows that partially masked the brittle agate sharpness that shown from them. A species of physical intensity hung around him like an aura. He simmered. Then he offered his thoughts in a voice rasped by too much smoke and whiskey. “The poor little bastard looked to me like he was on his way to a firing squad and then I saw more clearly when he walked into the door, blind drunk. We all fit people into categories. The bully, the flirt, the father-figure, the man possessed by ungovernable rage, the brain. I thought that the guy looked pathetic.”

“What category did you put him in?”

“Pathetic fucker. What’s his name again? Fontleroy?”

“Fontaine with an e. Fontaine Mitchell.” I flashed back to the young man who Warren Barshall called, ‘Fontleroy’. He did look more like a Fontleroy. Spoiled face, fleshy lips with a slight overbite, hair too fashionable, manners too pristine. The sweat rings under his arms as he was on his way to see Barshall were too profound. He looked to me as if he’d lost his dog, his best friend and wrecked his car all on the same day. I think it had more to do with a fear that Warren would discover his homosexuality and out him to the world, and to his mother, who hoped in vain for a grandchild.

“Isn’t that just a bit harsh? You’d just seen him for the first time.”

“It’s like a father’s authority. A father’s burden. It’s too much for some people. I want to see a certain toughness in people, but the kind that doesn’t veer toward callous. Because that’s a dangerous road. Aggression is necessary. Don’t look at me like that, it is and so is compassion and a sense of fairness.

“I look for men who are thorough, who have good eyes and steady habits. They ask the right questions. A smart, steady man is very hard to find. Someone who knows how to talk to people. Somebody knows when to shut up and listen. God doesn’t make very many men like that, does he?” Warren scrutinized me from under his bushy eyebrows. 

Warren loved to bait me. Usually I didn’t take it, but my Stetson came off. I tossed it on the table next to his and then I sat down across the table from him and beckoned to the bartender. “What he's drinking -- two more.”

“And the lady?” Warren wanted to know my impression because he’d started to get sweet on her. Fontleroy –Fontaine, her son, came to meet Warren because she’d become sweet on him as well. “Did you check her out?”

I tapped the drink that arrived and then downed it in one. “She wants to live in a world where everything around her can be identified and is certain to remain constant, like the ocean, or maybe the moon. She trusts objects that you can point to and know what they are in a concrete sense. I think that’s why she struggled with love in her marriages. She can’t touch it. She can’t hang onto it and if it changes at all, she runs. I think that she was damaged from the year that she spent on the street as a soiled dove.”

Warren’s eyes became harder, “Why should I listen to you?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t. I think that human consciousness is a tragic evolutionary misstep. We’re creatures who labor under the illusion of having a ‘self’, each of us programmed with total assurance that we’re each a somebody. But everybody’s nobody. She’s the classic example. Your girlfriend fabricates meaning in order to deny who she is down deep so that she can keep going. She’s an uncanny puppet on a lonely planet, in cold space, living and replicating and sending unborn generations into suffering and death because that’s her programming. Except that Fontleroy is about to screw up the future generations part of it.”

“Don’t you think that leaving God out of it is a little harsh?”

“Harsh? Coming from Warren Barshall? I’m surprised you didn’t waterboard me to get information about her.”

Warren admitted, “It did cross my mind—If that’s all that you think life is, why don’t you go and kill yourself?”

“I lack the courage for suicide.”

The bartender brought more drinks and both Warren and I pounded them and motioned for another round. 

Warren looked around at the smoky, cramped bar. Most of the men were hard-worn, watching basketball on the television, scraps of neon, tinsel, Razorbacks football posters. If they recognized him as their governor, they didn't acknowledge it.

I grabbed my hat, perched it on my head and stood, turning to walk outside. He followed my lead, dropping cash onto the table. We emerged into a warm, humid summer night. I looked back at the bar. It had been constructed a century before out of old bricks and limestone cube. The neighborhood around it bore the tatters of an abandoned commercial neighborhood. Small strip stores with broken windows and cardboard patches, kudzu and ivy growing wildly all over everything, high grass breaking through cracks in the sidewalk.

“The lady, what about the lady?”

“What do what you want, Governor? I gave you my assessment. When she was younger, she smoked pole for a living, then she went through three men and now you want her to go through you. You’re a big boy. I’m not sure why we choose the ones we do. Some women just have your name on them, like a bullet or a nail in the road.”


In this story, there are people who are identified and unidentified. Warren Barshall is the Governor of Texas, though the state is not mentioned. There is a bit of Texas in the story just because. The person reporting to him is his favorite Texas Ranger (law enforcement, not the baseball team) and that person is never mentioned by name because it's written in the first person. I wrote it as a study in contrasts last week. You can file it under matchmaking, Texas style.

Friday, July 31, 2015


I've been blogging for about six years now. I started hesitantly, on more of a dare than anything else.  

Recently, I've thought about discontinuing the practice because there is a significant portion of the blogging regimen that smacks of narcissism. I've been reading Hemingway while on the road recently. His terse, tense short stories are masterful. He was good when was good and his second best was still better than most other men's best. Eventually, Hemingway fell victim to his own legend. In The Green Hills of Africa and later in The Old Man and the Sea, he didn't write like the great early Hemingway but more like one of Hemingway's heroes might have written had they been literate. He ceased to see himself as a writer and saw himself instead as a hunter, a warrior, a mighty man who could take it even if he could no longer dish it out. 

If you live long enough to look back, it's evident that we lead different lives at different times. We're still who we were - at least shades of our former selves, but life and experience changes us. Sometimes it hardens us. Other times it breaks us. Our reaction to adversity defines who we are if to nobody but ourselves.

The times that we find ourselves living in are outrageous, and blogging about that daily assault of abomination and weirdness becomes nearly reflexive -- at least to me. 

Perhaps blogging is similar to Yeates' lonely impulse of delight (An Irish Airman Forsees his Death) "I balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind". I prefer to think that I leave behind a somewhat mute record of impressions. Breadcrumbs for those who would read that lead to at least what I, in my narcissistic best, thought of this or that.

I've been writing my own brand of terse, tense prose, which I do as an artist might doodle on a sketch pad. If you follow this blog, you'll see it showing up more least until I tire of my own drivel and doodling. Think of those stories as mandalas that are crafted for their own sake and then destroyed.

Thursday, July 30, 2015

Soylent Green

The 1973 movie, starring Charlton Heston and Edward G. Robinson had an interesting plot:
The 20th century's industrialized society has left the world permanently overcrowded, polluted and stagnant by the turn of the 21st century. In 2022 (roughly where we are now), with 40 million people living in New York City alone. Housing is dilapidated and overcrowded; homeless people fill the streets; about half are unemployed.
So far, so good. Mayor DeBlasio, himself a former Hillary Clinton campaign manager and political operative is trying to run the scenario out.
Most of the population survives on rationed food products produced by the Soylent Corporation, whose newest product is Soylent Green, a green wafer advertised to contain "high-energy plankton".
Heston, who plays a New York City detective, learns that Soylent Green is made of people, and that's the punch line of the movie. In 1973, anyone who'd made a movie about an America where babies are killed in vast numbers in utero at public expense would have been laughed off the stage. Nobody outside of the few surviving Nazi researchers, still on the run in '73, would have conceived of a ruling American political class so callous as to jeer at the bodies of dead babies and to cheer on those who sold harvested organs, making a huge profit. 

The California Attorney General (who plans to be the next US Senator from California) is diligently working to prosecute those stalwart souls who infiltrated Planned Parenthood and are methodically releasing video after video of outrageous conduct. Fully in defensive mode, Planned Parenthood keeps assuring the public that there was no systematic profit taking from planned organ harvests from babies that took place. Then another video that shows different people wanting a new Lamborghini paid for with baby organs surfaces, or a grizzly video of a dead 11 week old infant where they're debating how much they'll get from the child's corpse and how much they want for each part. The Democratic Party's response, and that of the mainstream media, has been predictable.

 However, there will undoubtably be more videos.

Hillary Clinton and the progressive faithful are rallying around Planned Parenthood, determined to keep the doors open and the killing of babies and the organ harvesting moving forward.

What does it say of us as a people?

WARNING, the video below may be disturbing to you.

Judge Issues Restraining Order  - prohibiting the release of more of these videos...