Monthly Archives: January 2017

“MARCH OF SLIMES”

“Opening minds and angravating liberals since 2001”
“I am a guardian of freedom and the American way of life.”

Genesis 3:19 / John 3:16

My Friends & Newsviewers:

When I wrote the piece on Mr. Flemming, truly I had no idea when there would be a follow-up. Yet, situations predicated that the very next issue was that follow-up.
I had no idea this issue had to be written (or, wrote itself) because of the events that have transpired since.

We can go back to virtually every President since Adams for there to be some controversy. (I think Washington was the one exception.) We have had some rascals in the Oval Office but for the most part, they performed their jobs well.

We can talk about most any President who has held office in our lives, which would be from the first socialist president, Wilson, until today. (Yes, we share reading these words with at least one Centenarian! – God Bless you Jean!) The thing that strikes me is that with rare exception (LBJ and Nixon) most of the anger towards the POTUS has been somewhat benign. (And those two were pilloried for the Vietnam War for the greater part.)

That is until the last decade or so.

Even with BJ Clinton “allegedly” having affair after affair and deflecting the criticism by sending Tomahawk missiles to blow up a tent or an aspirin factory, most of the peeps did not give him much aggravation. (If we knew then what we know now…)

Then came Geo. W. Bush.

I gave him high marks at first. He handled 9-11 amazingly and got us thru that. We did not have another terrorist attack on our soil until the Ft. Hood muslim terrorist attack, under the watchful eye of… Biff. (Source: CBS News.)

He did well for the first six years but he last two years were disastrous. That was also coincident with the ascension of Nasty Pelosi to the House Speakership.

It was during that time that “Bush Derangement Syndrome” kicked in.

The Dems, having all the power for the first time in ages, acted no better than a fifteen year-old kid who stole the keys to the family SUV and a bottle of Jack and went for a joyride, leaving havoc in his wake.

This bottle-courage gave the Dems the impetus to start to denigrate W and things quickly degraded from there.

Fast-forward to the 2008 election when the Reps dared you to vote for McLame (and had he not had Sarah Palin on the ticket, he would have been slaughtered rather than just humiliated.)

(I wrote extensively on that election at the time, I refer you to your archives for refreshment.)

And here comes Biff.

We all knew he was an empty suit (still is) and spoke in sound bites, platitudes and a plethora of lies. But, since he is (half) black, he was off limits.

(Dear Libs; Since we were told by you that we “hated” Biff because he was [half] black that we were racists for “hating” him, are you now also “racist” for hating Trump because he is White? Just asking, for a friend.)

And, try as we might, we were cowed for a time rather than be branded “ray-cis” but eventually his patina wore off and he was fair game. But for the greater part, in the totality of their terms, the Left were far harsher and more profane towards W than the Right was to Biff.

And then comes Donald John Trump.

After knocking off over a dozen of his own party, he defeated another sacred cow, The Hilderbeast.

Never mind that the DNC stacked the deck to beat yet another minority (in fact one of the smallest of your more popular minorities) the nominal Jew, Bernie Sanders, to win the nomination.

No matter what the Beast stood for, and she felt very strongly about both sides of many issues (whatever got her votes), there were your slack-jawed, low-IQ and lower information supporters cheering her on. On more than one occasion she slipped and either misspoke or lied and said something antithetical to what she meant, and the crowds still cheered her on.

Let’s put aside all of the false claims of the Left as to the “legitimacy” of the election. Trump won, the Electoral College certified the election, he was sworn in; it is over.

(The Left were hoping for a late minute surge of votes, then recounts, then unfaithful electors, then a refusal to certify, then an injunction, then the Easter Bunny riding a unicorn would swoop up Trump… all with the same level of likelihood.)

The “celebrities” who swore that they would leave are all still here. Many of them still screaming and yelling about Trump.

(Dear Snowflakes; Got a question for you. Cher, O’Donnell, Schemer, Handler and others lied when they said they would leave the Country but didn’t. Why do you listen to them now? You realize that listening to liars is a mental defect, right?)
It was reported that there would be uprisings and unrest and it came to pass. Some places refused to arrest any of the “protestors”. (I prefer to call them “domestic terrorists.”)

In NYC, on Inauguration Day, the Commie Mayor Wilhelm DeBlahZero refused to have anyone arrested. Similar stories in other cities. Protestors smashed windows of Starbucks (yes, really, a sacrilege for snowflakes) and Bank of America buildings, both YUGE Dem supporters.

So, they are not just terrorists, but idiots.

But that was only on the surface and under the radar for most for those who got their “news” from the SRCFM (yes, still. Perhaps we shall call it “Statist Run Communist Friendly News” until you come up with something better.)

We already discussed what the wimmen’s protesters goals were. They were not warm and fuzzy and cute little things that float around in the minds of housewives. They were the machinations of a mean, vicious, cruel, nasty, hateful gaggle of hags who were advancing the Biff/Alinski/Socialist/Anti-American agenda.
Wimmen’s have all the same rights as do we male Neanderthals. Neither of the TWO genders have any lock on any sort of rights greater than the other.

What you DID NOT see if you watched only the pap-feeders of the media, were the hordes of people wearing vagina costumes, wearing vagina hats, carrying signs of which most carried a profane statement, words, or both, you had hate filled, profanity laced “speeches” by the dimmest and most irrelevant “B-” and “C-” list “celebrities.”

There were idiots (not be catty, but most almost as good-looking and as slim as Rosie O’Donnell) wearing “Don’t Grab My P***y” on their shirts. There were men wearing shirts with the same message, as if they would fight you if you tried. Sadly, many of these profane shirt wearers had children in tow. Thank goodness young kids are not impressionable!

The aftermath found the streets of DC (and I am sure in other cities) littered with the remains of their signs, costumes, “hats”, trash and, yes, feces.

(In his evisceration of the lady from ABC, David Muir, part of the discussion had to with the claims of crowd size of Trumps Inauguration. Trump said that while the media reported on the size of the various crowds, he mentioned that this weekend there will be the annual Pro-Life march in Washington that will draw over a million people, and the media will not cover it. They will also leave the city as clean as it was when they arrived.)

I am going to leave you with the words of a new friend, Aprilsue, who was kind enough to give me permission to print her words. I hope they resonate with you as that did with me.

I am not a “disgrace to women” because I don’t support the women’s march. I do not feel I am a “second class citizen” because I am a woman. I do not feel my voice is “not heard” because I am a woman. I do not feel I am not provided opportunities in this life or in America because I am a woman. I do not feel that I “don’t have control of my body or choices” because I am a woman. I do not feel like I am “not respected or undermined” because I am a woman.
I AM a woman.
I can make my own choices.
I can speak and be heard.
I can VOTE.
I can work if I want.
I control my body.
I can defend myself.
I can defend my family.
There is nothing stopping me to do anything in this world but MYSELF.
I do not blame my circumstances or problems on anything other than my own choices or even that sometimes in life, we don’t always get what we want. I take responsibility for myself.
I am a mother, a daughter, a wife, a sister, a friend. I am not held back in life but only by the walls I choose to not go over which is a personal choice.
Quit blaming.
Take responsibility.
If you want to speak, do so. But do not expect for me, a woman, to take you seriously wearing a pink va-jay-jay hat on your head and screaming profanities and bashing men.
If you have beliefs, and speak to me in a kind matter, I will listen. But do not expect for me to change my beliefs to suit yours. Respect goes both ways.
If you want to impress me, especially in regards to women, then speak on the real injustices and tragedies that affect women in foreign countries that do not that the opportunity or means to have their voices heard.
Saudi Arabia, women can’t drive, no rights and must always be covered.
China and India, infanticide of baby girls.
Afghanistan, unequal education rights.
Democratic Republic of Congo, where rapes are brutal and women are left to die, or HIV infected and left to care for children alone.
Mali, where women cannot escape the torture of genital mutilation.
Pakistan, in tribal areas where women are gang raped to pay for men’s crime.
Guatemala, the impoverished female underclass of Guatemala faces domestic violence, rape and the second-highest rate of HIV/AIDS after sub-Saharan Africa. An epidemic of gruesome unsolved murders has left hundreds of women dead, some of their bodies left with hate messages.
And that’s just a few examples.
So when women get together in AMERICA and whine they don’t have equal rights and march in their clean clothes, after eating a hearty breakfast, and it’s like a vacation away that they have paid for to get there…
This WOMAN does not support it…
please copy and paste… I loved it and it fit me perfect, so if you feel the same copy and paste it…

LAST WORD AND A FAVOR: A dear friend, fellow patriot, Vietnam Marine vet, salt of the earth great guy texted me that his grandson, a Marine on active duty in Okinawa, was attacked. He underwent seven hours of surgery to repair the damage. He will be in sick bay for another two weeks, light duty after that for a month then reevaluation. I ask you to please keep Logan in your prayers. If you are inclined to send a card, good wishes, prayer cards or the like, you may use the following:
LCpl. McKenzie James L.
3rd LE BN
Unit 35902 A Co.
FPO AP 96385 5902
(I’d consider it a personal favor)

“Black and White”

Things happen for a reason.  And there are things that happen that have far reaching consequences.

Some of you know this story but most of you don’t.

If I had to name one person who has made an impact on my life who was not a family member, clergy or out-ranked me, there is only one.

“Two Speed Flemming.”

A lifetime ago, I was an audio engineer and worked with a number of musical groups.  Back in the mid-70s I found myself living and working in Macon, Georgia, the home of Capricorn Records.

Across the street from Capricorn Studios was a bottle bar.  I may be wrong but I think it was called “The Flamingo.”

Bottle bar at night but a source of good, well, decent, well, food all day. They had good burgers and fries, at least.  (I am not sure if I would trust their Blueberry Duck a Poirve.)

The studio was almost directly across the street from the Flamingo.   One of their charms was, other than proximity, free delivery.

That was the good news.  The bad news was they had he world’s oldest man as their delivery man.  Yes, “Two Speed Flemming.”

Back in the 70s, Macon was still a quintessential Southern town.  Despite the fact that cars were at a premium on Broadway (now, called MLK, after the famed Republican) “Two Speed Flemming” would shuffle slowly a half of a block to the corner, wait for the light then cross the street, barely beating the light, then to continue the journey.

I confess, I was not too tightly wrapped in those days. I was less than a year removed from the fun spots of Southeast Asia and there was nothing I could not do at that point.  I had beaten death on its home field, I celebrated that daily and I truly I needed to be knocked down a notch or two.

 

One day, famished, I awaited “Two Speed Flemming” on the street in front of the studio.   I watched him laboriously trod from the Flamingo to the corner, wait for the light, make it across the road then trudge down to the studio.

I had been angravated before getting food less than steaming hot but today was different.

I saw for the first time the difficulty with which he walked.   He was slow and deliberate. (He darest not cross in the middle of the block, something this young Yankee saw as improbable, peradventure he would be mown down by an errant car.)

As he approached the studio he seemed no different to my eye then when he left the bar/restaurant.  He was not in a hurry and I, being a Yankee in the waning days of the Old South, had no place to quarrel.

I took the food, tipped him handsomely, and asked him to wait a moment as I brought the food inside, including mine than I knew at that moment would be cold when I got to it.

I returned to the street, he was still there. He might have tried to get away but he would not have gotten far, not at his speed.

I asked him his name and he said “Flemming.”

“It is nice to meet you Mister Flemming.”

“No, no, no suh! Not Mr. Flemming, just Flemming”, he protested, he seemed to be frightened by the sense of respect.

You see, “Flemming” was some 90-odd years old.  And the son of slaves.

Yes, his parents were slaves.

I was talking to history.

“Flemming” was his slave name. It was the name of the man who owned his parents.  They were given the name of their “massah” as their name, to show ownership. When they were freed, his parents become “sharecroppers” on Massah Flemming’s land.

Sure they were “free” but they had no place to go.  From this and later conversations with Mr. Flemming I came to realize the 13th Amendment had the same efficacy as the most and liberal speaking. They talked a good game but when the rubber met the road, very little happened.  Slaves were still slaves and more actually than theory.

They had no place to go.  They only knew the farm or plantation.  Once they were freed, most had no place to go so most stayed in place and started a different life of servitude as “share croppers”

 

So, when Mr. Flemming took exception to calling me calling him “Mr. Flemming”, it took me a while to get him to understand that I respected him and I felt sad for him.

No, not the kind of sad that requires a “safe place” or counselling.  Not the kind of sad that wanted me to sit in chains on the street wearing a shirt reading “I am sorry.”  Not the kind of sad that wanted someone to give him money for being a slave, if not in actuality then in practice.  And, besides, HIS parents were real, emancipated slaves.

No, the kind of sad that showed me and proved to me how evil man can be to his fellow man.

Here was a kind old man who may or not made something of his life rather than being a share cropper, a go-fer and other menial jobs.

He said that he was uncomfortable being called “Mr. Flemming.”  He said that he was always called “boy” or “nigger” for his entire life. (No apology, those were his words.)

We talked about this and he explained that “was just the way it was.” I said that was just not right and he said that even the good people talked like that in the past and he held no grudge.

Maybe he was simple.  Maybe he had faith. Maybe he understood more about people after a lifetime like his than I will ever come close to understanding.

But if there ever was a person who “deserved” something, it was Mr. Flemming.  And I can assure you that if anyone ever offered him something for nothing, he would not take it.

Mr. Flemming allowed me the courtesy of calling him Mr. Flemming as long as no one else heard.  That is a joy that I will take to the grave, to give a sweet old man a modicum of respect after almost a century on Earth.

We chatted from time to time, he told me stories about the old days and when the main house got a phone and how each house had a special ring depending on where they were on the road and so on.

I gather he never married and I guess I can understand that. In a thought alien to us he lived his entire life within a few miles of where he was born.

 

I share this because.

Because I get incensed when I see racial hate.

Because I get angravated when I see someone being taking advantage of because the other person can exploit him.

Because when I see/hear the hateful rhetoric of the Rev. Wright, Al $harpton, Je$$e Jack$on, and of course, OLG, Biff, it makes me wish THEY lived the life Mr. Flemming did and Mr. Flemming had it easier.

Because the same Rev. Wright, Al $harpton, Je$$e Jack$on, and of course, OLG, Biff, who are demanding reparations for the “slaves”, yet they are living in some pretty cush digs and without a care in the world and have never lived one day in the shoes of a Mr. Flemming.  (And you know if any reparations were given, they would have their collective beaks in the pile.)

No, I am not a liberal.  I am not a bleeding heart. No I don’t think all blacks are horrible the same way I don’t think all whites are saints, and vice-verse.

People are good or evil.  It has nothing to do with skin color or most anything else.  (I reserve one group for inspection.)

Mr. Flemming taught me that and it is one of the most valuable lessons I have ever learned.

Forty years out, I can see him as if it was yesterday, I hear his weak voice and his way, Deep South drawl, tell me the way it used to be without one iota of regret, sorrow or anger.

If he can live that kind of life without the bitterness that I would imagine we all would have is the same situation, I can try to be a better person to honor his example.

If you have not spent a fair amount of time in the Deep South back then, or before, am sure some of this may seem unbelievable, it sure was to me at first.

What was strange was that the music business in Macon, and prolly other places, was color blind. I worked with bands and crews that were both black and white.  Heck even the white guys got crap from locals hither and yon for having long hair.  Yes, we played in bars, juke joints and clubs that had chicken wire in front of the stage and in prolly most cases we did a gig and got out of town.

Such was the Old South.  But I am sure the similar prejudices existed in other places.  The difference is back then and there, it was condoned by the local and state gummint. (BTW, my Georgia driving license bore the signature of Jimmy Carter.  Just saying.)

(There will be a second part to this as the lesson here is leveraged against current events.)

 

To your relief, the regular diet of bile and indignation will continue in the coming issues.