Dear Friends: First, there was The Apprentice...

Then, there was Celebrity Apprentice...

And now... Politician Apprentice!

(Coming soon, to a screen near you)

It's a launch.

So here we go, my Dear Friends, because if you're reading this, then yes, Donald J. Trump has been sworn in as 45th President of these United States of America, and apparently, the world has not blown up. Yet. But give him some time. He's definitely on the job. Seriously. After all, his entire goal, dare to say, his entire con was: become really rich, and famous, and sleep with some of the most beautiful women in the world, and even marry some, and raise a beautiful and successful family, who've also started or will soon start their own beautiful and successful families (the entire world is keeping an eye on you, Tiffany; so pretty, so smart, so the black sheep (not that there's anything wrong with that)) and, he's gonna take it all, everything he's worked so hard for, with panache and pizzazz and the occasional money-grab (money-grab), and he's gonna blow it all up?

Maybe.

But, I think not.

And with that being said, or written, or ignored, I cordially invite you all, my all-mighty and always-listening (and never-responding) reluctant audience, to join your humble commentator in the final itineration (big word alert; google it) of the first phase of the last phase of 'The Inquiry into The Philosophy of Humor: A Critique', as I chronicle the first 100 days of The Donald J. Trump Apocalypse, along with the usual diversions into eternally long-winded tangents, and circle-logics, and pretzel-haikus, and puns (of course), and cliches (reluctantly), and fulminations, diatribes, philippics, raspberries, animadversions, bullyrags, readings of the riot act, middle-finger flag downs, scoffings, slanders, calumnies, and licks with the rough side of the tongue¹, all with my absolute and utmost respect, and, the sometimes and occasionally (and likely to be accidentally) funny line, now and forever to be known as...

The Fine Line.

¹O'Rourke, P.J. "Yes, I'm not related to Bill O'Reilly." (The Atlantic Monthly Press; 1995)

(Dear Friends: If you haven't seen footage of Madonna and/or Ms. Judd's March on D.C. speeches, you-tube it; further, this post would've appeared in a more timely fashion, but for minor technological difficulties; basically, I'm a technological dummy.)

Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome one and all to the magnificent Trump D.C. Hotel, Resort and Casino, Inc., where for one night and one night only (and maybe tomorrow night, depending on ratings), a spectacular battle of the sexes for the middle ages! (And mostly, for the middle-age-ed.)

And now, in the rrrrrrred corner, weighing in as the #1 top dog, and with a huge reach advantage, and a killer tan, we have the one, the only, President Donald J. Trump!, and in the boo-hoo blue corner, we have Madonna!, and in the off her rocker corner, we have... Ashley Judd? Look, Ms. Former America's Sweetheart: Were you kidding us? What the bleep was that¹? At its core, probably an audition for a remake of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest"², with The Donald as Nurse Ratched, Ashley Judd as McMurphy, and as The Chief, Ashley Judd, and as the character played by Danny DeVito (Martini), Ashley Judd, and as the character played by Christopher Lloyd (Taber, probably McMurphy's bull-goose looney understudy, before he became Doc Brown), Ashley Judd, and as stuttering Billy Bibbit (a virtuoso performance of a lifetime, except Brad Dourif went full stutter; you never go full stutter³), Ashley Judd, and who knew anybody could make Madonna look so much less-looney? (Other than Sean Penn.)

Yes, that would be Ashley Judd. (Despite the fact that Madonna fantasizes about blowing up the White House, which is so coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs, it's to be ignored by all, except the Secret Service.)

No matter, ladies and gents, because, and I'll roll it as best I can...

Let's... Get... Ready... To... (cue the Buffer)...

Rrrrrrrrruuuuuuum-ble! 

(JFW -- you and I probably agree that both Madonna and Ashley McMurphy are either looking to resurrect over-the-hill singing careers, flailing movie careers, or sleep with George Soros. Of course, George isn't having any of that kung pao! He thinks he's George Clooney.) 

And there's that word looney again. By the way, did any of you see "Money Monster"? Spoiler alert: Don't bother.

¹Apparently, Ms. Judd was only reciting a high-school student's poem. Note to the poet: work on the metaphors. Comparing Trump to Hitler is so cliche.

²If you haven't seen it, see it. A great novel made into an arguably better movie, an arguably rare occurrence.

³Jr., Downey, Robert: as Kirk Lazarus in "Tropic Thunder." (DreamWorks; 2008)

Dear Friends: How about them Philadelphia 76ers!

Somehow, they're playing phenomenal basketball and managing to become overachievingly (a big pseudo-word) relevant -- how so? They've actually been flexed into a nationally televised prime-time game, tonight, against those Houston Rockets and the indomitable James Harden, he of the "not everybody can grow it like that" beard, and that killer game, which may actually be the result of said Sampson-like beard (gotta love the beard!) -- and how sweet it is to be relevant again.

And so, with a one, and a two, and a three cheer Philly Hooray: How about that Joel Embiid!

What a player. What a character. What a shame he didn't make the all-star team so he could finally get that date with Rihanna. (Ah, the beautiful Rihanna. What a talent. What a character. What a shame she doesn't just agree to go out with him on merit alone.) And by merit, folks, I ain't talkin about the fact that he's a highly paid and becoming-more-famous-by-the-game professional basketball player (ugh, what a rich and famous cliche that is); rather, his merits are that he's a good-lookin dude (yes, that sounds shallow; but like it or not, looks matter in life, and anybody that tells you otherwise is full of bleep, good looking or not), with a stellar personality (a note on that: is there anything more charismatically infectious than a player who makes everybody around him better, both as players and as people, who's willing to take the last shot, or make the last block, or grab the last rebound in the clutch, who celebrates his teammates and coaches more than he celebrates himself, and brings the kind of youthful exuberance that simply lifts all those around him, be it players, coaches, and most important, the fans? (To wit: see Wentz, Carson; he's the same deal, if maybe not quite as good looking, given the red hair and beard combo (not a good look; by hey, he's a dude, so who gives a bleep), and the totally dorky countenance (photographic memory, anyone?), although some women are totally into that, given that he's also rich and famous... and, I digress into ugh-ly (and this time shallow) cliches, and this time with a pun!), and I bet Embiid's the kind of guy who picks up the tab everywhere he goes (just a hunch) and does it all with that big ole smile that says: it's good to be Joel Embiid!

And Joel, we love ya for it.

(And with all due credit to Sam Hinkie, architect of The Process, in which we trust, and although Sam's gone from our sports-scene, he'll never be forgotten), and coach Brett Brown, who's brought the San Antonio Spurs' team-first attitude to a sport that needs more of it, and point guard T.J. McConnell -- what a surprise that guy's been; the offense that runs through him put up a whopping 72 points in the first half on Wednesday night, impressive by any standard.)

Cuz oh yeah!, Philly fans will take players like that all, day, long. Why? Because although we value talent, and character, and winning (although it's been a while on that count, but, we're all hoping for the roaring twenties (an acceptable cliche, I guess), where all five of our major sports teams (yes, that includes soccer, you sports neanderthals) are not only good, but great, and bring us many championships), and as much as we value the dream¹ as much as the reality, we value winning the right way, with grace, and hard work, and that never-say-die blue-collar ethic that makes the City of Brotherly Love the best sports-city² in the entire country, and the entire world, bar none.

And, we make a damn good cheesesteak.

Bar none.

¹Yes, CPT, that's a reference to the infamous dream-team espoused by the infamous Vince Young, he of the infamous looney-ness (another pseudo-word, but more than apt.) 

²By any measure, a great sports-city requires the presence of a great sports bar, and Philly's got one rated amongst the best, and probably is the best (in my highly biased opinion) -- Chickie's and Pete's -- and if you visit, have the crab (it's all about the crab), and also have the crab-fries, and for your gourmands out there, you gotta have the lobster pizza. It's to live for.

Dear Friends: It's an upside-down world we live in. The news is fake, the facts are alternative, and Orwell is definitely rolling in his grave. (And, it's probably a joint he's rolling.) And, of course, The Donald is the POTUS.

Yes, it's 10 days into the Trump Presidency, which is 10% of the first 100 days of his presidency, which is somehow the bellwether for any presidency, for those of you counting, which is sorta weird given how we probably want any leader of the free world to be patient, and measured, and even-handed in the face of this world of adversity we all find ourselves in, thanks to Bush¹.

Part 1:

           "We don't need no education." -Pink Floyd

           "We don't need no stinkin badges!" -Anonymous

Sanctuary cities, your time is up. And further, Kate's Law will pass. And if California wants to secede, please do it sooner than later. (Then our fair country can get back all those popular votes you wasted.) But, just so you know, there will be a wall. From the Arizona border to the Nevada border to the Oregon border. And, you will pay for it. But no worries, dudes, you can probably fund it with all that high-grade recreationally-medicinal marijuana you'll be selling us. And naturally, there will be an import tax. Like 50%. So think twice.

Part 2:

           "Mister Gorbachev, tear down that wall." -Ronald Reagan

           "Mister Pena Nieto, build that wall!" -Donald J. Trump

So here's the abbreviated twitter-war:

@POTUS: You'll build it, and pay for it, and I'm charging 20% on imports, plus the usual vig, and that's a bargain, hefe, or I'll cancel on you! #upyours

@Pena Nieto: I don't think so, hefe. You don't cancel on me, I cancel on you. #youhavesmallhands

@POTUS: No way, Jose! #they'reaveragehands

@Pena Nieto: Did you just call me Jose? I'm canceling. #whatadouche

@POTUS: You'll come crawling back. But tell you what, once the wall's finished, you can stamp Made in Mexico on it! #whatadoubledouche

@Pena Nieto: Really? Deal. #maybenotadouche

@POTUS: But the stamp has to be made in the U.S.A! #whatadouche

Part 3:

           "We're all out."² -Theresa May (in a historically short bill submitted to Parliament regarding her Brexit strategy)

           "You can't come in!" -Donald J. Trump (in a historically short tweet regarding his ban on entry from seven countries supporting radical Islamic terrorism)

And when you think about it, they're both saying the exact same thing.

¹As said, over and over and over again, by Barrack H. Obama, et.al.

²Abridged from her 132-word short and sweet F.U. to the E.U.

Dear Friends: Punxsutawney Phil has spoken, and it's gonna be another six weeks of weather. Or maybe it's six months of weather. Phil didn't really say. Phil's a groundhog. Phil can't talk. 

But don't tell that to the PETA people. Oh yeah. You know em. And you love em. Or maybe you hate em. But they definitely hate us, because we're people. And they don't give a flying bleep about it. And as long as it needs to bleep to survive, it's game. (A note on that: they (the PETA people) don't pay much attention to threatened or endangered species anymore; word got back to em a while ago, through their animal-translator, an ape named Cesar (no relation), that certain species are going extinct just to escape PETA.)

(And, we all gotta question the wisdom of paying attention to any species that hunkers down under a tree all winter long, then pops up for a quick walk, and if it sees its shadow, we're supposed to cheer it on (one way or the other) for running back down its groundhog's hole? Once, just once, we'd all like to see it run down a rabbit's hole. (Of course, it probably once did, which is why it now runs from its shadow. But don't tell it that. Or the PETA people.))

But hey, let's love em, even if they hate us. Personally, I just wish they'd leave the cows alone. What'd they ever do to you, except make a tasty burger and tastier steak. But go ahead, PETA. Eat all the chikin you want. Cluck cluck.

And the movie "Groundhog Day" is pure genius.¹

Long live Bill Murray, the funniest man alive.

Longer live Harold Ramis. We miss you.

¹Of course, the first time I saw it, in the theater, I thought: that sucked.² (But I'm no genius; and, many people had the same initial reaction, most of whom were probably PETA people.)

²You have to see it, then see it again, and again, and again and again and again, until you see it.³

³Harold Ramis was a genius. 

Dear Friends: Call it deja vu. Or, if you're a non-tweeting populist blue-collar football fan, call it groundhog day. But it seems that every bleeping February, Tom Brady (and that pesky Belicheck-led Patriots team) wins another bleeping Super Bowl. And this time, in legendary (and over-the-top) comeback fashion. And this from a dude who wears Uggs. Voluntarily. (Really, Tom? Come on, man. There's whipped, and then there's Ugg-whipped.)

And, in a love-to-hate-em Mad Libs moment, fill in the blank(s): Tom Brady is a _____________, or, he's a ______________ _______________!

(And, a quick side-note: I was reading a newspaper article recently, on actual news-paper, and was struck by the commentary of an old-school journalist who described the old-school method of using a folded piece of plain-white paper, folded in a special way, for note-taking. Try it. It works. Unless you're some sorta paper-vegan.)

As such, I present you with a personal best-of top-ten list: The All-Time Greatest Athletes: Ever.¹

1. Muhammad Ali. Argue all you want, but he was the greatest athlete ever. Even he thought so. And don't mess with the Muslims on this; they'll just kill you if you disagree. And definitely don't mess with men of a certain age who love Muhammad Ali on this. And trust me, they love him. And if you disagree, they'll yell at you. A lot.
2. Serena Williams. Definitely don't mess with the feminists on this one; they'll just kick you if you disagree. And Serena just wins. And wins. And wins. And will continue to win for the foreseeable future. And with an attitude as big as her big, beautiful booty. If you're into that kinda thing.
3. Wayne Gretzky. Michael Jordan fans are going berserk, but in terms of pure numbers, there's no competition. And numbers never lie. Even if they're Canadian. And no player in the history of any sport ever made anybody around him any better. And no sentence in the history of the English language has ever been that confusing.
4. Tom Brady. Michael Jordan fans are going berserker, but they can go berserk all they want. And the Joe Montana fans can stick it up their bleep. But consider: Bill (not to be confused with Joe) Walsh, Jerry Rice, Dwight Clark, Rodney Craig, Ronnie Lott, et.al., et.al. And 5 Super Bowl wins is more than 4 Super Bowl wins. Do the math.
5. Michael Jordan. No contest there, in terms of hoops, but honorable mention must be given to old-schoolers Wilt Chamberlain, Bill Russell and Oscar Robertson, and mid-schoolers Larry Bird and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, and a sympathy mention to Magic Johnson. That dude's lived with HIV. For like 25 years. And yet, he's still winning.
6. Michael Phelps. What, he doesn't count because we forget about swimming except for every four years? That dude's won the most gold ever, and may win more. And he's never vandalized a Brazilian bathroom, or lied about it. And, he loves to bong the Gold Kush. (Imagine the lungs on that guy; no kush left for you or me, or anybody.)
7. Jack Nicklaus. Yes, Tiger Woods had the most dominant years ever, in the hardest sport ever, ever. Except for the Golden Bear: more major titles, and 19 second place finishes. That dude never quit. And, he preferred french toast. And, he was as likeable as he was ruthless; not quite Arnie-likeable, but pretty darn likeable.
8. Pele. Best player ever in the most popular (and arguably the best) sport ever. But hey, this is the USA! And, the dude's a total sell-out now. He'll endorse anything. If you wanna sell crack, he'll get back to you on it. We would never do that in the USA.
9. Roger Federer. At some point, the E.U. will accuse us of pro-Americanism. And those pussies will use tennis to prove their B.S. argument. Regardless, that dude's the best ever. (And this past Australian Open proved it.) Sorry Sampras, but you're falling down the ladder quick. And the Graf-Agassi's better produce. For us. Quick.
10. Dale Earnhardt. Long live that man. How many dudes have actually died for the sport they loved? Not many, not since the Spartans, anyway. And they lived to die fighting. And Dale was from that exact same stock... He left us on his shield, not carrying it.

¹In my most humble opinion.

Dear Friends: My mom is awesome. How awesome is she? Super-awesome. As in, one of her greatest character traits I remember from growing up, and still to this day, is that no matter what, if she hears somebody disparaging another person, justly or unjustly, she will defend that person. Vehemently. Friend or foe. (She has no foes, because she's awesome, but if she did, and heard they were being disparaged, she'd defend them. Vehemently.)

My mom also has a sense of humor. So you can imagine how funny it was to hear a few of her responses to her phone-circle of idiot-liberal pro-Iranian anti-American friends and family (extended family), who, upon hearing the 9th circuit court upheld the ruling opposing President Trump's executive order on immigration-extreme-vetting (aka the travel ban), they were all celebrating.

Now, for clarity, let's define idiot-liberal pro-Iranian anti-Americans by their given name: progressives. (Progressives are a subset of liberals; that is, all progressives are liberals, but not all liberals are progressives. Thank God. Whom they do not believe in (progressives, not all liberals), which makes them idiots. Because as the old saying goes, if you don't believe in God, you better be right.)

And yet, they're still my mom's friends and family (extended), because she loves them all. Her secret is: they may not love her quite the same anymore, because she supported and supports President Trump's vision to make our country safe and prosperous again, but that doesn't bother her. She loves them anyway. Because she's awesome.

And so, to my mom's phone-circle of idiot-liberal pro-Iranian anti-American friends and family (extended), if you ever read this, which I hope you do, please know that it's because my mom is awesome. And you, my mom's phone-circle of idiot-liberal pro-Iranian anti-American friends and family (extended), are not.¹

All of which reminds me of a conversation I had many years ago with a cousin, said cousin being an idiot-liberal pro-Iranian anti-American, who lived then and lives now safely and prosperously in this country, and as a citizen, which went basically like this:

• Him: I hate America.
• Me: What?
• Him: I hate America.
• Me: Why?
• Him: Because I hate America.
• Me: So leave.

(No response. End of conversation.)

And this was when, as a country, we were still being civil. Today, I can imagine a similar conversation going something more like this:

• Can you tell us why you hate America?
• Because America sucks.
• How so?
• America is full of imperialist-colonialist-fascists who drive SUVs.
• But you drive an SUV.
• Yes, but I'm a progressive.
• What does that mean?
• Progressives drive SUVs as a statement of protest.
• What are you protesting?
• Everything.
• What are you protesting, specifically, by driving an SUV?
• Everything.
• How about one specific example?
• SUVs.
• What about them?
• We drive SUVs to protest SUVs.
• Well, why didn't you just say so?
• I just did.
• Fine. Let's move on.
• No.
• Why not?
• I'm done talking to you.
• Why?
• Talking to conservatives causes global warming.
• Say that again?
• Talking to conservatives causes global warming.
• How so?
• Are you deaf? It's a scientific fact that talking to conservatives causes global warming!
• Is that why you recently banned Breitbart editor Milo Yiannopoulos from speaking at Berkeley?
• Exactly!
• Can you expand on that?
• He came to speak at Berkeley, which made us burn cars, which causes global warming!
• Did you burn SUVs?
• No. Prius's. They're pieces of bleep anyway.
• Does it matter that Milo Yiannopoulos is a gay immigrant?
• Not if he's a conservative.
• How so?
• Talking to conservatives causes global warming.

You get the picture.

¹My mom would not approve of my calling anybody not awesome.²

²Because she's awesome.³

³And they're not.

Dear Friends: What's with these kids today? And by kids, I'm referring to the over-grown, petulant, school-yard-intellectually-aged "students" littering the campuses (a note on that: are we all familiar with the Dakota Pipeline protest, which was in the name of preserving the region's pristine environment,¹ and which when said protest ended, and the protestors left, they left behind 250 truck-loads of trash, which now threatens to contaminate the region's pristine environement? And, I'm just saying.) of our country's academic institutions?

There's been a lot written recently on the phenomena of "safe-spaces" and "non-Trump zones" and the perpetual protests now ubiquitously found in the college and university campuses land of the snowflakes (and, if only it was harder to imagine said land of the snowflakes being one of those souvenir-shake-up-bubbles, with a miniature college campus inside, surrounded by those little snowflakes, and when you shake it, all the little snowflakes rise up and rain a snowflake-hell down on the campus. Yikes!), and one recent book even traces the origins of such to that infamous video capturing the Yale undergrad verbally berating, at the top of her lungs, and not shrill, but angry, that poor schmuck² of a college-professor-administrator-type who was idiot-dumb enough to allow said undergrad to make him look like such a schmuck. (And as for Yale, one of the pre-eminent academic institutions in the country, and the world, and with an admittance rate as low as the rate of economic growth during the Obama administration, and they're admitting wackos like that? Was it a voluntary or involuntary admittance? Again, just saying.)

How did this occur? (Not the Yale admittance rate of The Future Wackos Club; on applications, they all present as the cream off the top of the cream of the crop, and can probably keep it together for the personal interview, but once admitted, watch out. We've all heard the stories. And seen the videos. If not, YouTube the Yale video, and ask yourselves, is that Yale undergrad a trend-setter or a typhoid undergrad? You decide.) But seriously, my thinking on how this occurred is simple, but not simplistic, and can be summed up in two words: social media. Which is the pre-cursor to artificial intelligence. Which will kill us all. (Yes. I know. That kind of a leap makes you wonder whether I belong in a Future Wackos Club.^3-4 But, I hope you pick up on the word-play. If not, think about it a little bit. It won't hurt you. Just put the emphasis on the word Future and not the word Wackos, as opposed to at Yale, where the emphasis is purely on the wackos.)

Now, I'm no psychologist. Or even a pop-psychologist. Or even a pop-anything.⁵ But here's my thinking: many young people today need to restrict the expression of free speech in the public sphere in reaction to their inherent need to control speech on the internet (re: social media), which they cannot. Their expression of rage, and their complicit need to humiliate others in public, is the ultimate contradiction of their own inability to possibly imagine themselves humiliated in public; as such, there is a high likelihood they've already somehow been humiliated in the on-line sphere, and cannot do anything about it, so must now seek to control the public, non-on-line sphere. And, as such, social media once again proves its own fallacy -- it seeks to connect us, and it seemingly has in the short-term, but it's an illusion, and will finally only succeed in distancing us. In simpler terms, once a person has been hated-on in the on-line sphere, they will begin to hate all on-line people, which they will then transfer to a hate of all people, and they will be in a state of perpetual hate, and life will become an expression of contained chaos: 1) the social-media-bubble that social-media-types live in will de-volve into a personal bubble insulating them from all other people 2) the majority of people will work harder in order to distance themselves as much as possible from those people, but never create any bubbles, because decent people understand the inherent value of other people, and that it's all about teamwork, and that we need each other, period. 3) the really rich will simply create literal bubbles from their bubbles of wealth (snowflakes not included, but always optional), which the really rich will eventually enhance through the use of robots, who (the robots) will then begin to think for themselves. And kill us all.^6-7

And if you think this is all science-fiction, think again. It's already happening. And it shouldn't surprise anybody, at least anybody with a still-functioning brain, that when we pull back the curtain to reveal the leader of the mind-less, soul-less, robot empire, he goes by a name familiar to us all: Barrack Hosein Obama.

Just saying.

¹It was also intended to protect sacred burial grounds, which should be protected, as with any expression of religious freedom, unless they seek to use their religion to blow us all up. Of course, nothing is sacred anymore, which is horrifying, since we've all seen Poltergeist.

²I'm not very well-versed in Yiddish, but I believe a schmuck is an idiot-dumb college-professor-administrator-type.

³Started by Orwell, George. What would he think today? He probably wasn't the I-told-you-so type, so he'd be horrified he was right. And even more horrified with the left. And he was a genius.⁴

⁴Other members of the club include Musk, Elon and Hawking, Stephen. And in the non-genius category: me. And hopefully, you.

⁵Bonus pop-music headline: Did anybody see the Grammys? I tuned in this year, for the politics. There was some politics, but what I mostly saw was some good music, and a whole lotta fashion. As such, Jennifer Lopez's dress was highly fashionable, and highly sexy, and highly inappropriate for prime-time television, since it was this close to showing her Bieber. Again, just saying.

⁶Garland, Alex. "Ex Machina." (Universal Pictures; 2015.)

⁷Nolan, Jonathan and Joy, Lisa. "Westworld." (HBO; 2016.)

Dear Friends: I'll keep this one short. And sweet. Because we're all bleeped. And there's no time to waste.

Why? Retired General Michael Flynn, before he was national security advisor to the President of the United States of America, Donald J. Trump, was wire-tapped. And said wire-tap was leaked. To the press. And if it can happen to him, a retired general, and (now former) national security advisor to the President of the United States of America, we're all bleeped.

But there's not a snowflake's chance in hell that we're running anywhere.

Now granted, Retired General Flynn was not in his official capacity yet, and he did lie to Vice President Mike Pence, which said lie was inexcusable, and appropriate action was taken. But nothing Retired General Flynn did was illegal. The leaks, however, are highly illegal. And appropriate action will be taken.

So, as we go into this President's Day weekend, think about it. Seriously. Retired General Michael Flynn, the person trusted to provide national security advice for the good of our country, was taken down by our own government -- as orchestrated by Barrack Hosein Obama.¹

Appropriate action must be taken. And we trust President Donald J. Trump to lead the charge.

¹The slipperiest slope in the history of slippery slopes is the one that leads to tyranny, when they take our most basic freedoms away, one by one. As if they're checking off a list. Those bleeping bleeps.

Dear Friends: Are we all on the same page with what a democracy is? And isn't? Because there's a whole lotta people out there today trying to tell us what a democracy is. And isn't. So let's ask ourselves: what would our Founding Fathers think?

Let's go back to Yale. Which, until recently, was known as the "conservative" Ivy League university, which in itself, conservative Ivy League anything is one of those oxymorons, like jumbo shrimp, or big prick, or smart ass. All of which (are terms that) now apply to Yale. Because at Yale, they're now looking to dis-own John C. Calhoun, who although was more of a second generation Founding Father, was a state representative, senator, Secretary of State, and Vice President of the United States of America, and a major benefactor, to Yale, and whom John F. Kennedy himself named one of the five greatest senators ever (JFK was a Harvard guy), and allegedly a major league bigot, and probably, to hear Yale call him out, a total drunk.

(A note on that: is an alleged bigot and total drunk a better class of alleged bigot and total drunk if said alleged bigot and total drunk has discriminating tastes? Don't think about that one too hard. It's a never-ending loop of a puzzle.¹ To all of us normal people.)

But, amends are to be made, as Yale is also looking to re-instate the black panther party -- as a social club. (Or is it an eating club? Or, is it a drinking club? Or is that Princeton? Who knows? We're not Ivy League material.) And was it Albert Einstein who said that repeating the same thing, over and over again, and expecting a different result would only result in global warming?² It was. (Einstein was a Princeton guy.) Of course, Einstein was referring to extreme global warming. As in the nuclear option. Which he helped develop, because he had no choice, and despite the only two things he knew for absolute certain: 1) the universe is infinitely vast 2) people are eternally stupid.³ And he wasn't 100% certain about the universe.

And as to that, do we all actually remember the black panther party? Whose mission statement basically was: kill whitey, and all his honkie friends, violently. Which is detestable, to all of us normal people. And do we all remember that this entire Yale fiasco-unless-you-believe-every-crisis-is-an-opportunity began due to Halloween? Which is really just an excuse to eat a lot of candy? And who doesn't love candy? Especially when it makes for a sweet segue way...

Because we need to immediately ban all swedish fish from entering our country, seriously. Why? Because of the Swedish system of justice. Yes, Sweden is renowned for its open door policy, its tolerance of all people, and now, its thought police. Because if you even think, let alone say, that the recent spikes in crime in Sweden are causally linked (not casually, causally) to its immigration policy, and even if you're a police officer who investigates those crimes and simply posted those views on Facebook, you will be investigated for a hate-crime.  (Yes, said police officer was investigated, although the investigation was dropped, because even in Sweden, they realized that was insane. But, damage done. Talk about chilling.) Ah, Sweden. Land of the warmest people in the world. Despite the cold. And the thought police.

So yes, Friends, it's even more of an upside down world than we realized, still full of fake news, and alternative facts, and now, the Swedish thought police.

And so, what would our Founding Fathers think?

Let's explore that, in a short play (off-Broadway; we here respectfully want nothing to do with Bill bleeping de Blasio), told in five acts:

• Act I. Fire. Before it, life sucked. Then, life was awesome. And then...
• Act II. Life sucked again. Somehow, we found the light, but still managed the dark ages. And then...
• Act III. Life was awesome again, because we discovered what would become the USA. And the most poignant of our founding fathers, unknown to most, and forgotten by history, but not by us, said, "Government is like fire. It can help you, but let it get out of hand, and it will consume you. And we are here serving you all this wine, master Tom, and we love you, but we would love you even more if we could have some wine, too." And master Tom said, "Consider it done."
• Act IV. Fast-forward to modern times: Boycott! Wegman's! For selling! Trump! Wine! Which is totally fine (that is, the wine), so boycott it all you want. More for the rest of us. (I've heard it's actually quite good. And not imported from Napa or Sonoma. It's made in Virginia. Which is still proudly in the USA.)
• Act V. Surprise ending: master Tom was Thomas Jefferson, one of our foremost Founding Fathers, and third President of the United States of America, amongst many other accomplishments, and, a total drunk. (To the point of being in massive debt, quite a bit of it due to wine purchases, when he passed on to that awesome place in Heaven reserved for our Founding Fathers, where they're all playing golf on cloud 9, with Arnie, and of course Arnie always wins, and still with a smile and likely a cigarette, which God likely allows, because God is truly tolerant of all things.) And Thomas Jefferson was a genius. He attended William and Mary, but he was also a UVA guy, since amongst his many accomplishments, he founded UVA. And somehow, he managed to transplant the best wine-growing regions of France, arguably the best wine-growing regions in the world, all the way to Virginia. But oh, that Thomas Jefferson. What an alleged bigot and total drunk.

¹See "high-ground, moral". A favorite pastime of progressives.

²Let's all remember that our Founding Fathers' idea of global warming was when good old Bessie the horse farted, and they all had to suddenly evacuate the stable.

³After Churchill, Einstein was the greatest person of the 20th century, because despite his obvious genius, he never would have excluded himself from his belief in all people's eternal stupidity. He had a sense of humor. And he believed in God.

Dear Friends: By a quick raise of hands, how many people out there love the movies? That's right. All of us. No polls needed. Because whether you've watched every movie ever released, or just the event-movies, we've all seen a movie. And probably loved it. No, definitely loved it. (Think E.T. Everybody loved E.T.) Because we all love movies. However, whether we all love Hollywood, and Hollywood movie stars, is a different story, because they just can't keep their over-paid, over-sexed, over-coked noses out of our politics.

So, let's have some fun with that, by joining Hollywood on the red carpet, which, if Hollywood could have its way, would be a red-velvet iced-cake carpet, iced with cocaine. (Although, they might agree the cocaine shouldn't be on the carpet, it should be a little higher up, like on little water-fountain-type-things, at easy nose level. And, they might also agree the cocaine shouldn't come from Mexico, you know, with the whole wall thing and all. But, only the cocaine. Not the immigrants, whom they need to roll out their red carpet.)

And, since we're only normal people, and not Hollywood's intellectual-elite, we only want to interview Meryl Streep. And to do it, we've hired Jackie Mason,¹ a totally funny-old Jew. (Yes, he's old, and yes, he's funny. And yes, he's a Jew. And yes, that'll be relevant later. And God bless Jackie for being chosen to be funny, and for being chosen to be a Jew, and for choosing to call out that pompous bleep, Meryl Streep.)

So whaddaya say we all listen in on the pre-interview, from the cozy, Dolby Theatre green room: 

• Jackie Mason: So, Meryl, have you seen the video?¹
• Meryl Streep: That's funny, Jackie.
• JM: Why's it funny, Meryl?
• MS: Because you're funny, Jackie.
• JM: Am I?
• MS: Of course you are, darling. We all love you.
• JM: Do you?
• MS: Yes Jackie. We do.
• JM: Why?
• MS: (Silence. But a polite silence.)
• JM: Did you not understand the question?
• MS: (Silence. A less-polite silence.)
• JM: Did I stutter?
• MS: (A pregnant silence.²)
• JM: Let's move on. Are you gonna speak again, although you're not nominated for anything, and won't win anything, like the last time?
• MS: Jackie. I am nominated this time.
• JM: Well, that's a surprise. (Jackie says this with dripping sarcasm.)
• MS: Jackie. I can't understand your anger. You're supposed to be funny. And, you're supposed to be a Jew.
• JM: (Silence. A rare occurrence for Jackie. It doesn't last.) A Jew in what?
• MS: In not asking me brown-shirted questions. Let me remind you, Jackie, to be a brown-nose, but not a brown-shirt.
• JM: Really? (Jackie says this with emphasis.)
• MS: Yes, Jackie. You should've gotten the memo by now.
• JM: Really? (Jackie says this with even more emphasis.)
• MS: (Silence. With emphasis returned. In the form of that perpetually-smug Meryl Streep smile.)
• JM: That's it. I'm done. Get this bleep outta here.
• (And, he waits for her to leave, or be removed, or do anything but look at him with that smug bleeping smile.)
• MS: Actually, Jackie, you're interviewing me.
• JM: So?
• MS: (A totally pregnant silence.²)
• JM: You're joking, right?
• MS: No.
• JM: (After a real short silence.) Well look at that, a Jew broad, telling me to leave. And without any Manischewitz.³
• MS: Jackie, I am neither a Jew, nor a broad.
• JM: Exactly. So go bleep your non-Jew non-broad self.
• (And Jackie walks off, but doesn't bother to drop the mike, because he figures he's wired anyway, by those bleeping Hollywood bleeps.)

And, to be continued...

¹Inspired by the video of Jackie's takedown of Meryl's anti-Trump Golden Globe's speech.

²Although, maybe not so pregnant, since Meryl supports Planned Parenthood, despite pregnant silences being totally thespian.

³Pesci, Joe. As Tommy DeVito⁴ in "Goodfellas". (Warner Brothers; 1990.)

⁴Tommy was not a Jew. But, despite what he said, he was funny.

Dear Friends: Karma is truly beautiful. And last night, she was extraordinarily beautiful. Because after an evening's worth of Trump-bashing politics, the Oscars blew their ending. And as anybody who knows movies knows, it's all about the ending. And Hollywood blew it. (A note on that: Jimmy Kimmel did not blow it; he's an extraordinarily funny person, and despite all the Trump-bashing, it was a good-natured show. (As opposed to being Chris Rock-ish-ly angry. He's funny, but angry.) And in that beard, and that looked-as-if-it-was-painted-on suit, Jimmy was also the requisite funny-looking. As all comedians should be. Because nobody wants to listen to a funny super-model.)

So, let's all have some more good-natured fun with Hollywood, by bashing along with Hollywood's Trump-bashing. As such, my personal night began (after asking myself, "Am I really gonna watch the Oscars?") with the following joke: Donald J. Trump is so good at getting ratings, as President or otherwise, he's even helping out the Oscars. And my pre-awards bold-prediction was: Meryl Streep wins best actress, so that she gets a chance to speak. And anyway, Emma Stone is way too lily-white, and looks way too much like a funny super-model.

So let's see what happened (and a spoiler alert: in the spirit of the Oscars, this was drafted last night in real-time, and it may run a bit long, and most of it won't be very interesting.)

Fashion wise, best dress of the night was Jessica Biehls'. Her beautiful gold dress was wrapped so tight, she must be in the re-make of "The Mummy", starring Tom Cruise as The Mummy, and Jessica Biehl all wrapped-up in gold. And Halle Berry, in order to dispute the claims that she's stone-cold cray-cray, went with a hairstyle inspired by Albert Einstein. She must've literally stuck her finger in a thermo-nuclear-electric-socket. And for a long while. But who knows, maybe it's the newest Hollywood therapy, according to Halle Berry. (Not Einstein. He's no longer with us. But his hairstyle survives.) And was there any more awkward moment than Keith Urban holding Nicole Kidman's hand while she was being interviewed, and he looking up at her, okay, maybe not at her, but at the Valentino-inspired halo above her head, for being a movie star, and for being at the Oscars, and for making it all look like such a drag. Come on, Nicole. Give us a break. And yo dudes, what's with the skinny suits? We all get it, dudes, that you're all skinny. And all totally cool. But please, wear a baggy bleeping suit. So the rest of us normal dudes have even a minuscule chance at a date with Kirsten Dunst. (In my opinion, she was the most beautiful movie star of the night, in that simple, elegant, just off the rack dress. Bravo, Kirsten, Bravo.) Incidentally, the next most beautiful movie star may have been Charlize Theron, even if she recently dated Sean Penn. And next may have been Emma Stone, even if she is way too lily-white and way too funny super-model-ish to be taken seriously.

And this was all still on the red carpet. (Side-note: was Dakota Johnson going for the nun-wrapped-in-gold look? Not a good look. But, she definitely succeeded in it. And as for the Velvet-brothers, Strahan and The Rock, Costanza should sue them for velvet-appropriation. And marketing-wise, apparently The Rock will reprise the Hasselhoff role from "Baywatch". And as Pamela Sue Anderson: Pamela Sue Anderson, as The Bionic Lifeguard. The plot-line: she's had $6,000,000 worth of plastic surgery. Paid for by Hasselhoff. But not The Rock. The Rock has actual standards.) 

Back to fashion, Naomi Harris. Was she wearing some fashion-designer's rubber-fetish? Certainly looked it. Again, not a good look, unless you're into that kinda thing. And Charlize Theron is picking up speed, like Kurt Busch at the Daytona 500, as the movie star I'd give my left nut to date. But hey, I'd still have the right one. And maybe another date with the beautiful Charlize Theron. (I heard she's not that picky. And Sean Penn proves it.) And Emma Stone is still right there. She actually rhymed a dumbass rhyme, while everybody in the entire bleeping world was looking at her, and judging her, and she still managed to pull off that dumbass rhyme. But of course, is was still only a lily-white funny-super-model-ish rhyme.

And then... the show actually starts, with NSYNC. It must be amazing to all of Hollywood that they're still out there, and still lip-syncing, and still totally in sync.

And then... Timberlake keeps singing. And the stars all start dancing. And all of it as if sponsored by the Sinaloa Cartel: the cartel of choice, when you're in Hollywood.

And then... a sitting ovation for Jimmy Kimmel. Best opening line ever, maybe, which he follows up by bashing President Trump, by bashing Mel Gibson, and bashing Scientology. That's basically the Hollywood trifecta.

And then... the Kimmel vs. Damon pseudo-feud. Matt is fat, and selfish, and gave away "Manchester by the Sea" to do a Chinese ponytail movie. Which lost $80 million dollars. (Except China manipulates its currency, so it actually made $80 million dollars, of our money, in our dollars.)

And then... surprise ending! I have so much more written, but I'm not gonna bore you all with any more of that Hollywood bull-bleep. Because let's face it: Hollywood is full of the most-talented, least-educated, least-intellectual, most-self-important people on earth. Which although quite the feat, is really not worth writing about. And as for this post, sequels are rarely worth the effort, and hey, we're not writing "The Godfather" here. And after all was said and done, Hollywood blew their ending. And audiences only ever remember the ending. And clearly, the most beautiful of all the beautiful ladies at the Oscars was named Karma.

Dear Friends: In his first speech to the joint members of Congress, President Donald J. Trump, President of these United States of America, knocked it right outta the park. Cliche fully intended. Because it's an all-American cliche, and we're all Americans here. And clearly, the President's speech was far from cliche. It was bold, as if given by a true President. And it kept its promises, like a Republican President. And that Republican President is rightly named Donald J. Trump.

And the Democrat response was: "Any similarities to President Ronald Reagan were blatantly coincidental. We have it from our reliably anonymous sources that the-not-our-President Trump consulted the late Nancy Reagan's final astrologist, hoping to channel the late Ronald Reagan, and it clearly failed. Only a boob would think that speech was any good, with all due respect to Melania, as even all of us male Democrats gave her a standing ovation. Which is why we all remained sitting. It was like we were still in grammar-school. Which all of us Democrats were acting like we still are in grammar-school. Bad grammar and all. And even more pathetic, our response was delivered by the only guy we could get, a straight-outta-central-casting-old-redneck-wannabe-looking-dude trying to woo back our red meat. Except now the vegans and progressives are all pissed-the-bleep-off that said old-redneck-looking-dude wasn't Bernie Sanders. Except Bernie looks about as redneck as bluefin tuna-belly sashimi in Kentucky, which we all know the best bluefin tuna-belly sashimi is found in the greater New York metropolitan area, which is where Bernie should stay, and keep counting his hush-money from the Obama-Clinton-DNC. Although, and this is a funny story, we give rednecks the full credit for actually inventing bluefin tuna-belly sashimi (aka Toro, in some place called Japan.) It's actually pork-belly, but from a tuna-fish, and invented by Jim Bob Sam Cooter's second-cousin's fishing partner, Cooter "Tuna-belly" Clinton. (No relation, except to the Clinton Foundation. And, he's also known as Cooter "The Cooter" Clinton, but Bill was only having some fun with him, and it stuck.) Anyways, good ole "Tuna-belly" Clinton caught the very first bluefin tuna-fish ever caught, right here off the coast of Kentucky. There's even a plaque marking the very spot he reeled it in. So come on down, y'all, and visit Kentucky. Home of the first bluefin tuna-fish ever caught. And we have the plaque to prove it."

Okay, Democrats. Thanks for that.

But let's get back to the speech, in which President Trump was a perfect 10 for 10, with 3 homers and 7 grand slams. And if you doubt that, re-watch the speech. And if you still doubt it, you're probably a Democrat. Because it was an A+ speech, delivered by a President who leads from the front, and will never leave any of us behind, and who gave us all the most emotionally poignant moment in recent Presidential history, and maybe all of Presidential history, when he spoke up for Mrs. Carryn Owens, the widow of our most recent fallen hero in the war against that evil in the world, radical Islamic terrorism. His name is William Ryan Owens, and he is a Navy SEAL, and he fell in honorable duty to our country, and Carryn was rightly overwhelmed by the pure emotion of the moment, as we all were, that is, those of us with a heart. (Democrats shamefully sat on their hands, and the response from Bill Maher was as ugly-progressive as it gets, even for an ugly-progressive like Bill Maher. But I digress. Progressives will do that to you.) And President Trump's final honor to Ryan was perfect: Ryan is looking down upon Carryn from up in Heaven, and smiling, because he now owns the record for our longest sustained applause ever for a fallen hero of these great United States of America. And God bless the Owens family for their sacrifice. And God bless President Donald J. Trump for his bold leadership. And God bless the USA.

And finally, God bless Carryn's response to those final words honoring her never to be forgotten husband, Ryan, which was to smile.

Dear Friends: Attorney General Jeff Sessions is neither a bigot nor a communist. Period. We can all see that, and we don't even know the guy. (Of course, those who do know Jeff Sessions swear by his integrity, his intelligence, his knowledge, and his ever-present faith in God, which is what this country was founded on, lest we all forget.) It's just that obvious. If you have working eyes. And a working brain. Or even half a brain. So even all you Democrats have no excuse. And please, to all you progressives out there, grow the bleep up. And move the bleep on. We're trying to repair our country here, and the world at large, and your constant BS is getting tiresome. And that means you, Senator Al Frankenfurter. (Meh. But Hannity already owns "Senator Frankenstein",¹ and Laura Ingram already owns "Senator Frankenfraud".¹ )

But "Senator Frankenfurter" does provide a clear image of what a fake-name "frankenfurter" really is. It's a hot dog. So please, let's all call it that. And please, with mustard only. What are we, communists? No. So please, pretty please, let's all call it a hot dog, with nothing red on top, ever. And that means you, President Trump. With all due respect, you should trust Vladimir Putin like you trust a rattlesnake. Or Obama. Or any progressive. Just don't. Because it'll all seem all-good at first. Mustard and ketchup? Why not? Let's give it a shot. And then, pretty soon, all the mustard factories will be hacked by the Russians, even French's, and overnight they'll all begin producing ketchup. And then, before we know it, they'll cut off the means of production. Of our ketchup. (And, except on hot dogs, we all love our ketchup. Imagine a hamburger without it, or a cheesesteak, or that second cheesesteak, or the cheese-fries, which are golden-crispy-french-fries, smothered in cheese, and best enjoyed with ketchup. All of which are Philly-favorites, and if you ever visit our great city of Philadelphia, where our great country was founded, let me know. I'm buying.) And then, we'll hafta (not NAFTA, it'll be called HAFTA) import all our ketchup. From Russia. And none of us want to imagine what Russian ketchup will taste like. Caviar? No. Vodka? Maybe. Plutonium? Quite possibly. But we won't know it, because it'll be disguised in a taste-less, smell-less, liquid-ketchup form, or maybe a solid form (wish Einstein were here to explain it all), but it'll kill us all. Quick. And so, President Trump, you're a hyper-intelligent guy, and a hyper-competent leader, and a hyper-awesome negotiator, but please, don't trust Vladimir Putin.

And definitely beware if John "I married into big-time tomato-ketchup money" Kerry comes to you with a special, totally diplomatic, totally Presidential, totally one-time-only-offer from Vladimir "The tomato-impaler" Putin himself. He'll be saying mustard. But talking ketchup.

¹Figuratively, of course.

Dear Friends: What a weekend of news. As such, this is an open letter to our President Donald J. Trump, who continues to fight the good fight against those who would undermine our democracy, including the out-right attack on his administration from within our own government, as orchestrated by a former President, and whom we've previously named before, but in the name of his out-right espionage, we will now assign a secret code-name: Barrack Hosein Obama.

     Dear President Trump:

With the utmost respect, Sir, we all know that you have more to go on than what you read in a website. Please share, at your convenience. Thank you.

And with even more respect, what we all didn't know is that you're such a truly brilliant chess player. Because what we all do know is that our greatest geopolitical threat remains, as Mitt Romney said in 2012, Russia. And since 2012, ISIS, and any other radical Islamic terrorists, and with a continued eye on Iran and North Korea. And since November 8, 2016, and apparently even before then, Barrack Hosein Obama. (And we're including his looney-liberals, starring Michael Moore as Cryin Chuck Schumer, and his preposterous-progressives, starring Rosie O'Donnell as Nasty Nancy Pelosi. Of course, Moore's a big joke, and so full of hot-air he's recently been mistaken for a hot-air balloon, and hardly worth the mention, and Rosie's so full of it, she may soon go into orbit, but around herself, because like all progressives, she thinks the entire world of herself. Or that the entire world is herself. It's as if Moore's a sloppy-slob, and Rosie's a slobby-solipsist. And if you haven't seen the footage of Rosie's recent "speech", check it out. It's a real doozy. Of course, neither Moore nor Rosie is to be taken seriously.) However, even the mere possibility that you were wire-tapped is to be taken very seriously. Especially since we here are all 100% sure that you were wire-tapped. Which brings us back to what you have to go on, which would suffice if even just a smidgeon of evidence. In fact, even a smidgeon of evidence would be kinda perfect. 

And finally, Mister President, keep up all the good work you do for all of us, and keep up the good fight in the face of their attempts to distract you. There are far bigger fish that need deep-frying. Serious deep-frying. And you're the man to do it.

Respectfully,

All of Us

(Author's note: In a previous post (3.3.17), I mis-spelled Laura Ingraham's name. As I have tremendous respect for Laura Ingraham, the work she does, and especially her passionate and well-stated opinions, I apologize deeply for the error. All other mis-spellings are purely intentional.)

Dear Friends: We all know what George Washington would do if there were treason amongst the ranks of our government. He'd kick ass now and take names later. (See Arnold, Benedict; he may have fled Washington's capture, only barely, but he'll never flee the forces of history that name him a treasonous coward. But in Washington's time, they hadn't yet invented political correctness or the moral-high-ground PC-police that enforces it, so any day now, they'll probably name Benedict Arnold a hero; it's a progressive thing.) Given such, what would George Orwell do? Absolutely the same as Washington, although Orwell might take names now and kick ass later. (That's just how Orwell rolled. And Orwell, although a war-wounded warrior himself (and because of it), would do it with his pen. But, it was a cool 007 super-spy pen that could see into the hearts and minds of men, and into the future, so. And, Orwell understood true irony.) And Orwell was a genius, and a warrior-poet, although he was not fond of his own poetry. So let's call him a warrior-prose-ist, because his ability with prose was as good, moral, and immortal to our history as history has ever known, and was paramount to his clear, precise, and prescient expression of the dystopian future (then) that we all face now. And clearly, he's a fan-favorite with us here.

Because remember how in his novel, 1984, you didn't watch TV, the TV watched you? Well guess what? Your fancy new smart-TV is watching you. And listening to you. And most likely, both. And how do we know this? Because the leakers are leaking on the leakers.¹ And there isn't a plumber in sight. And why not? Because all our plumbers are too busy doing their deplorable jobs, the best they can. And raising their deplorable families the best they can. And wearing the badge of honor that being called deplorable by looney-liberals and preposterous-progressives is, and which isn't returned. Because plumbers could easily stop fixing all their toilets (call it the plumber's-protest of looney-liberals and preposterous-progressives, or a grab-your-boycott on fixing toilets for looney-liberals and preposterous-progressives), but all our plumbers are better than that. And they need the work.

And of course, salt-of-the-earth blue-collar workers working hard to raise their families probably can't afford a smart-TV anyway. But don't worry. Because that can't-live-without-it-now smartphone is also listening to you. And watching you. And if you can't afford a smartphone, because maybe you need to prioritize paying for your presposterous-Obamacare-premiums (which by the way, we're all for "repeal", but in now way for "repeat"), again, no worries, because that can't-live-without-it-now flip-cellphone in your belt-holster is also listening to you. And maybe watching you. Who knows? So if you're smart, like Orwell, you won't even own a phone. And if you're a bad-guy, you won't even use a phone, like Paulie in "Goodfellas". (And why can't we just have bad-guys like Paulie anymore? That bad-guy was a world champion at slow-chewing an Italian sausage sandwich. And he could slice a mean garlic. And he refused to deal in drugs. (Although Henry went all Benedict Arnold on him in that regard.) Then again, Paulie did agree to have Tommy killed. But, it was one of those Sicilian things. Tommy wasn't made. End of story. And that poor bastard's Mom couldn't even have an open casket for him. Again, because he wasn't made. And again, because it was a Sicilian thing, and you don't mess with the Sicilians. Because it's a vendetta thing. Ah, the good old days, when if you didn't mess with the mob, they wouldn't mess with you. Of course, today we have a different kind of mob-mentality; just visit any college campus out there. And we mean you, Middlebury.) And yet, we all still trust that all that technology is only being used properly, to only spy on the bad-guys, and not us ordinary citizens. (Let's all hang on to that hope, as naive as it may be, because hope is a good thing, especially in a bad world. And crucially, we all must maintain faith in our systems of law and order, and in our agencies of intelligence gathering, and our military, as they must have faith in us. It's an all-around win-win, if we all do our part.) Because now, the bad-guys know they're being spied on, and they'll take measures. And they ain't goodfellas like Paulie. And Vladimir Putin is laughing his communist ass off. 

And yet, let's leave the high-level stuff to the professionals, but by never burying our heads in the sand, as we all need to dig in deeper against a more criminally devious enemy out there. Because although we're only ordinary citizens, we don't want to be naive about this: It's one thing for a government to spy on another government (see Putin, Vladimir), and it's another thing for a government to spy on its own political opponents (see Hosein Obama, Barrack), but it's another thing altogether if ordinary citizens despicable scum-bags can spy on other ordinary citizens. (Yes, let's call a despicable scum-bag a despicable scum-bag.) Because some despicable scum-bag may be spying on you, right now, in your home, or in your bedroom, and you wouldn't even know it. God forbid. (And may God place any such despicable scum-bags in their place. And we all know where that is. It's a real special place, set aside exclusively for despicable scum-bags.) But until then, all such criminally despicable scum-bags must be found, caught, and punished. Severely. These are not peeping-toms. These are criminally despicable scum-bags, violating our privacy, for whatever despicable purposes they conjure in their despicable minds, and we'd never know it.

Because at least Orwell imagined a future where we were all being watched, but we all knew it. Of course, it's no longer imaginary. But he never would've imagined the world today. And yet, Orwell was a man of passionate ideas and fierce hates, in the name of what he thought good and right, and he was as good a writer as the world has ever known, and used it to fight for what he believed in. And if he were with us now, he would demand we all take action to protect what we all hold dear: Our liberty. Our freedom. Our privacy. Even if there is no privacy left to us. But we better never get used to it. Ever.

¹Kinda like the Watchmen watching over the Watchmen, or, well (couldn't resist), much more like a fact-checking website checking out the claim by a legitimate reporter that Democrats Wasserman-Schultz and Ellison, the so-called future of the Democrat party, among other lesser-Democrats, sat on their hands during the rousing ovation for Carryn Owens, and her fallen hero husband, Ryan, during President Trump's rousing speech, and then the fact-checkers lied about the facts that were actually factually reported. And had to retract their lie. The point: maybe the entire liberal-media-complex is the enemy, and should all be scooped.²

²Orwell would've been adamant about this. His number one guiding principal in his writing was honesty. He knew then, amongst the many things he knew about writing, and learned about politics, and which need to be reflected upon, that civility, and our civilization, will crumble if we are all lying to and about each other. He saw this happen in the war he fought, and extrapolated correctly from there, and we need to pay him more attention, because if all war is based on deception (see Tzu, Sun), the reporting of it should be based on the truth, the absolute truth, and nothing but the truth. So help us God.

Dear Friends: As the famously hot-headed John McEnroe once said, "Alec Baldwin cannot be serious!" (Not a direct quote. A fake-quote. But said with emphasis, as if said by John McEnroe.) Because we here give the very smart Alec Baldwin full credit for his talent, which is as immense as his ego, but, as for his work as the fake President Trump, apparently Alec Baldwin thinks it so monumentally important to the very existence of our country, he's actually stepping away from the mike, since Alec Baldwin is just too good at being the fake President Trump, and he's just too good a person, and artist, to do it anymore, for all our sakes, but apparently not this past weekend. But thanks anyway, Alec Baldwin. We all appreciate you almost falling on your sword like that. Although, we here feel you should take acting lessons from your brother, Stephen Baldwin,¹ who apparently packs a gun, at all times. Can you imagine "Thanksgiving at the Baldwins"?² We'd all love to be there, even if we're only armed with our non-Baldwin senses of humor. (You're the best, Stephen. But Alec? Meh. Only sometimes.) But, I digress. And for the umpteenth time: progressives will do that to you. And as for you, SNL (aka Saturday Night Live), welcome back, now that you're not kissing the previous-president's bupkiss. (I think that's how you spell bupkiss. But more important, you hafta say it like Jackie Mason: With emphasis.) But, SNL, how bout being juuust a bit more fair and balanced? Right. As if you'd ever risk being ex-communicated.

But not us here. Because we actually believe in fairness to all, we don't just say it. And so, in the continued spirit of fair and balanced satire for all, I will attempt a satirical script for a satirical skit in which satirical characters try and discover the holiest of all satirical holy grails: satirically satirizing never-using the N-word, if you're a so-called white-person, and not Quentin Tarantino. (Note: Tarantino is the grand master of setups and payoffs. And, a genius (literally; he has an IQ of 160), although, we here fully disagree with his marching against law enforcement. That's just stupid. And unhelpful. And counterproductive.) But I'm only a so-called white-person. Although, I've never thought of myself as a so-called white-person. I've always felt I'm just an ordinary person. And that there's only three kinds of people: ordinary people, ignorant people, and despicable scum-bags. Normal is all of us. Ignorant is all of them. (That's a joke, people. Don't be ignorant.) And despicable scum-bags should be found, caught, and punished. Severely. (But that's not our job. That's a job for law enforcement. And it's not the PC-police's job, either, although they think it is, which makes them despicable scum-bags.) And, of course, I'm not writing The Corrections here. And never will. Because I'm not Jonathan Franzen. Because Jonathan Franzen's actually a member of a little-known fourth group of people, the above-ordinary people, even though despite all appearances, above-ordinary people all pee, and all poo, and all put their pants on one leg at a time. Unless maybe above-ordinary people can levitate, which would allow above-ordinary people to put their pants on both legs at the same time. An awesome feat, when you think about it. So Bravo to you, Jonathan Franzen, if you've mastered the art of putting your pants on both legs at the same time. (Which, by the way, that particular cliche is a misogynistic cliche, when you think about it, but only when you think about it too hard. Because if you think about it more, women wear pants. And all women should be able to wear pants, no matter the pants, and women already wear some of the most important pants in the world, and in all walks of life. So Bravo, women, we all love you, because you wear some of our most important pants, and we wouldn't be here without you. So thank you, women, for giving us all life. Because after all is said and done, everybody knows men are totally expendable and unnecessary to the survival of the species. Google it. But don't tell us that. We like it here. Life is beautiful, and wouldn't be as beautiful without all of us working together to make it so.) And do you know who writes women really well, other than every woman author who ever wrote any woman character, and Jonathan Franzen (even if Jonathan Franzen is accused of white-male-privilege, poor guy, because he happens to be an extraordinarily talented writer who happened to be born a white-male-person, but who writes women extraordinarily well.) Tarantino also writes women really well. (Somehow, Tarantino escapes the white-male-privilege charge. He must be kissing all the right bupkiss.) And getting back to our skit, let's all remember that I'm only a so-called white-male-person, although actually just an ordinary person, and not Quentin Tarantino. And that is, I'm literally not him, and literally not him. But let's give it a shot anyway.

And so, The Setup: In a galaxy far, far away, there is an Arthurian round table, and at said Arthurian round table, there sits a black knight. And, he's literally black. And, he's called the Black Knight. By everybody. (Of course, you can call him the African-American Knight, if you prefer. But the Black Knight just sounds so much cooler. Trust me. Of course, the PC-police, through their special thought-police subdivision, and before I've even started, have forced me to change the name, or else be branded. Spoiler alert: details later.) And to play the part, we'd like to hire the esteemed actor, Samuel L. Jackson. Because despite all the Hollywood rumors, Samuel L. Jackson won't do just about any part for a paycheck. He'll actually listen to you first, and sign later. And, most important, Samuel L. Jackson is a fine actor, and loves to act, and should get paid for his work. This is America here. We're not communists.

And now, The Payoff:

• THD: So, Samuel L. Jackson, can I write this script for a skit where the characters use the N-word, even if I'm not Quentin Tarantino.
• SLJ: Don't.
• THD: Don't what?
• SLJ: Just don't.
• THD: But I haven't done anything yet.
• SLJ: So don't.
• (And now, one of those pregnant silences. But there is a passing back and forth of glares. Deep glares. Seriously deep glares.)
• THD: All right, my man.
• SLJ: I said don't.
• (And now, a pregnant pause. Much more manly.)
• THD: All right, brother.
• SLJ: I thought I just said don't.
• THD: All right, dude --
• SLJ: Do I look like a dude to you?
• THD: Not at the moment.
• SLJ: Are you calling me a bleep?
• THD: Am I?
• (And now, there's something between a pregnant silence and a pregnant pause.)
• SLJ: I'm only gonna say this one more time. Don't.
• THD: All right, Holmes.
• SLJ: What did I just say? (And now, SLJ is animated when he says this. And even more animated at being abbreviated. It was cool before. But it ain't cool now.)
• THD: Don't?
• SLJ: Don't what?
• THD: Did you just say don't?
• SLJ: That's right. And exactly. So don't.
• THD: Fine. So, for the purposes of this script, will you say the N-word?
• SLJ: The what? (Said with major emphasis.)
• THD: Are you from the planet what?
• (Note: this is the setup within the payoff, and maybe within the setup. And, I'd love to say that to Samuel L. Jackson in person, and somehow get him to say 'what' one more time.)
• SLJ: What? 
• THD: (Bingo.) Come on, Sam L. Just say what one more time.
• (Silence. Much, much silence. And of the non-pregnant variety.)
• SLJ: Ha bleeping ha ha. That's actually funny. But don't call me Sam L., yet.
• THD: What?
• (And now, obviously, we're both laughing our bleepin asses off.)
• SLJ: Exactly.
• THD: So will you do the part?
• SLJ: How much?
• THD: All I can muster from the new Chinese-Hollywood.
• SLJ: I need a number.
• THD: Let's say I trillion yuan.
• SLJ: Well, blee-ip. Call me Sam L. What's the part?
• THD: You're in the prequel to "Spaceballs."
• SLJ: And?
• THD: And the Schwartz is still strong.
• SLJ: And?
• THD: And you play an ancient Jedi-knight, and your trusty weapon is your long-Schwartz, and you've named it your Schwartz-a-negger.
• SLJ: (Now acting as if he's reconsidering the whole Sam L. thing.) No.
• THD: Your Schwartz-a-N-word?
• SLJ: No.
• THD: Your ancient long-Schwartz?
• SLJ: Exactly.
• THD: Fine. And you've been accidentally blinded by the Lanx Australis Police Department.
• SLJ: The LAPD? In a bleeping galaxy far, far away? Talk about the long arm of the law, right?
• (And now, Sam L. laughs much, much laughter. And he finally offers over the marijuana cigarette he's been possessing the whole time. I respectfully decline. I'm working here.)
• SLJ: And?
• THD: And your name is Maced Hindu.
• SLJ: (And he's laughing much, much laughter again.) Ha ha ha. Now that's funny. But what's my name, seriously.
• THD: Maced Hindu.
• SLJ: Really?
• THD: Yup.
• SLJ: Do I get a side-kick?
• THD: Nope.
• SLJ: Then 2 trillion.
• THD: Done.
• SLJ: Then call me Maced Hindu.
• THD: And your trusty weapon?
• SLJ: Really?
• THD: Yup.
• SLJ: For 3 trillion?
• THD: Done. 
• SLJ: My trusty Schwartz-a-negger. I never leave home without it.
• THD: You can't say that.
• SLJ: What?

¹See "The Usual Suspects." (Gramercy Pictures; 1995.) Stephen Baldwin gives a top-notch performance in a top-notch mystery with a top-notch ending. Who is Keyser Soze? Come on, man. Does it get any better than that? (Spoiler alert: Keyser Soze is Keyser Soze.)

²"Thanksgiving at the Baldwins" is a great skit idea.³

³l'll work on it. But you'll hafta pay, SNL. My opening offer is 1 quadrillion yuan.

Dear Friends: Sports, sports, and even more sports. The world may be upside-down, and full of fake-news, and becoming more progressively-insane, thanks to insane-progressives, but being sports-mad is quintessentially all-American. We love our sports, to the point of madness. And there is no greater sports-madness than March Madness, that yearly quest for select college basketball teams (both men's and women's teams, although March Madness is usually associated with the men's teams) to win the National Collegiate Athletic Association (NCAA) College Basketball Tournament (aka the NCAA tournament), the grand-daddy of all awesomely-entertaining and awesomely-money-making sports-spectacles.

(And who knows what the market valuation would be if the NCAA tournament were a successful tech-startup, like maybe an app that makes all those useless and frivolous 10 second disappearing-messages disappear before they even appear, which I bet would be huge, so I'm intellectually-copyright-trademarking it right here, and right now, and calling it Snapback.^TM (Because not everything needs to be shared, people. Nobody cares about your cat.) And, unlike most successful tech-startups, the NCAA tournament actually makes money, actual money, as in real money, in reality, and not future-money in the fantasy-world of tech-startups. So a memo to the Twitters and Snapchats of the world: you may wanna go back to your virtual-chalkboards, and figure out how to make even one dime. Just one dime. We'd all be so proud of you. Of course, until then, people will still be snapping up all your stock like it's the best thing since sliced bread. It's called gambling. And more on that later.)

Because although the Super Bowl may be the single most lucrative sports-event (pound for pound, given it's basically a four hour event, but man, those four hours pack a lot of revenue), just imagine that kind of revenue-potential spread out over a month, and you have the NCAA tournament. (The World Cup (of soccer) is also similarly lucrative, but only occurs every four years, which actually makes it the greater sports event, period. Why? Less is always more. Unless, of course, you're a money-losing tech-startup. Or maybe vice-versa. I have no idea. Because, how exactly does the business-model work in which a tech-startup can lose hundreds of millions of dollars a year, and still end up achieving a market valuation of like $40 billion dollars? I just can't figure out the math. But I'm no genius.)

But the NCAA tournament (and the NCAA in general) is somehow controversial because it employs a business-model that rewards the best college (re: amateur) basketball team that (non)employs the best team of 1 year unpaid contracts scholarships. Huh? Exactly. Because it appears to be a total win-win. (And I'm open to debate here. We're always open to debate here. We're not progressives.) So let's examine: The NCAA, and all entities involved, rake it in hand over fist. (And are we all noticing the subtle use of sports-cliches yet? Although, there is no such thing as a win-win in sports, when you think about it. Which makes it a perfect sports-cliche. And who the heck even knows what raking it in hand over fist even means? And that is, and always was, Orwell's lament: our modern (dis)use of language. But I'm not Orwell. And Orwell wasn't into sports, or else he would've understood the need for sports-cliches. And sports is not politics. Although Orwell was right that politics will degrade into blood-sport if we are not careful precise in our language. Orwell was a genius.) And the players get the college experience, if some for only one year, while auditioning competing for a high-paid NBA rookie contract, and potentially an NBA max-contract. (And if you have to go play in an international league, hey, you get to travel, and you get paid, and you also get what rhymes with paid, and then maybe the NBA. Maybe. Because it's really bleeping hard to make it to the NBA. As it should be. This is America here. We don't audition. We compete, and we get the job done.) And everybody gets paid. Because even if you never play a minute of paid basketball, you get a "free" college education (nothing in life is free, Bernie Sanders (aka BS), but we all know what a scholarship is: a transaction in which both sides win, when you think about it), which will translate into a job. If you work hard. So don't ever believe that socialist BS. Because if you work hard, with the necessary incentives to do so, and are rewarded for your hard work, it's called success. Period. Because this is America here. We're not socialists. (Although, it seems the NCAA is now employing most collegians on campus for their own personal march to madness. And we mean you, snowflakes. And in this case, NCAA is an acronym for George Soros. And George Soros is an acronym for Barrack Hosein Obama. But, I digress. And we all know why: progressives will do that to you.) 

And, of course, we all also know that the most lucrative part of all sports is: the gambling. (Talk about hand over fist. Just think of it as if Tony Montana had chosen gambling over cocaine. And that probably would've been for the best, for Tony Montana, because gambling may not be good for you, but that cocaine will kill you. And so it was that poor Tony Montana had to say goodbye to his little friend, cocaine. But gambling would've been his friend forever.) And in the NCAA tournament, the preferred method of (in this case, harmless) gambling is the universally played NCAA tournament pool (a quick side-note: it was recently reported in a news-outlet, NPR.org I believe, that the average swimming pool has 2 gallons of urine in it at any one time. I really hop that's fake-news. Regardless, why do they tell us this stuff?), and universally referred to as the office pool. Everybody plays their office pool, unless you wanna be fired. Or at least banned from the water-cooler. Because if you don't play, you must be a communist. Or worse, a progressive. (Because progressives are anti-everything. And that includes everything.) Of course, it's also possible you don't work in an office, which is excusable. Or, you may simply realize it's a complete crap-shoot to even have a tournament picking strategy, because trying to pick the tournament is so astronomically impossible, I believe there was once a $1 billion dollar prize for picking the entire tournament perfectly. (But don't quote me on that. Which is another great sports-cliche.) And trying to even pick the final 4 is a monumental feat onto itself. And who wants to keep track of it all? You'd hafta give it, like, 110%. And, for like 24/7, for like an entire grueling month. And yes, computers may do all that for you, but the computers are all watching us, so. And I heard the microwave may be in on it also. But don't quote me on that.

(And does anybody remember Vinnie "The Microwave" Johnson? An apt nickname for a player who could get real hot, real quick. And not in the John McEnroe sense. We're talking about coming in cold right off the bench, and bing. And bing. And bing. That guy could shoot the lights out. And of course, he wouldn't have been nicknamed "The Gunner". In basketball, being a gunner means you stay on the bench. And it wouldn't have been "Shooter" either. That was Dennis Hopper in "Hoosiers".  (With Gene Hackman as "Coach" Norman Dale.) And "Hoosiers" is right there in 2nd place as the second-greatest sports-movie ever (it hit all the right cliches, somehow), right behind the #1 greatest sports-movie ever: "Rocky". And that's not just a Philly opinion. Ask anybody not from Indiana. Or google it. And speaking of, does anybody remember that long-forgotten Stallone sports-movie cult-classic: "Victory"? Stallone is a soccer goalie, of all things, and a POW in Germany during WWII, of all things, and they use a soccer game, of all things, to try and escape. Just think "The Longest Yard" (with Burt Reynolds, and not the Adam Sandler remake), but set during WWII. (And "Victory" also had Michael Caine as "Captain" John Colby. Back in the day, Michael Caine was in everything. Unless Gene Hackman was in it. He was in everything else. Not a fake-claim. Just see the movie "PCU". One of the characters proves the Caine-Hackman Theory for his graduate degree.)

And a graduate degree may be necessary to win your office pool. A degree in what, we're not sure. Statistics? Sabermetrics? Sports-betting? (I've heard they offer that at UNLV. But don't quote me on that.) So really, the only way to win may be to let the computer do the tournament picking for you. But, isn't that cheating? Not if you're a Boston sports fan. Bing. That one's for you, Sports Guy, from Philly with love. Because we here in Philly always win the old-school way. With patience, hard work, and good faith. And, we trust in the process. And, we pick our pools the old-school way. We throw snowballs at it, and whatever team it hits, we pick the other team. Ha ha, very funny, cuz you can all go bleep you non-Philly-selves with that bull-bleep. Philly fans threw snowballs at that Santa because he was a bad Santa. We don't like bad Santas in Philly. We like good Santas, because we celebrate Christmas in Philly, no matter our religion. (On a personal note: I'm a Zorastrian, and although we don't celebrate Christmas religiously, per se, true Zorastrians love Christmas and celebrate it ever year, and always will; The Three Wise Men, or Three Kings, who visited Jesus were Zorastrians, and they were the original bearers of gifts, and giving gifts to others on Christmas is a tradition that should be kept forever.) Because we're all Philly, all the time, and we're all about being the City of Brotherly Love. And we're the best sports fans in the entire country, and the entire world. And all we want for Christmas every year is a Super Bowl Championship, and/or another Stanley Cup, and/or another NBA Championship, and/or another World Series Title, or even an MLS Cup. (That's right, Philly. Soccer is here to stay, so start thinking 5 for 5 instead of 4 for 4. And Moses Malone would've approved. We love ya, Moses. Rest In Peace. And we have a good soccer team in Philly. Go Union.) But really, for all of us here in Philly, it's all about the Super Bowl. We're first and foremost a football town. And my personal bet is: The Eagles visit the promise land of Super Bowl Fifty-Four. And sooner would be even better, if not a better bet. (Bing. A non-sports-cliche ending in a gambling-pun. Aka a Snapback.^TM)​ ​And personally, I'm in full solidarity with President Trump, and also choosing not to play an office pool, or any pool. There are much more important things to think about than the NCAA tournament, even if I'll be watching every possible minute of it.

Dear Friends: What? The? Bleep? Too business friendly? Is that the best argument Democrats can muster to block Supreme Court nominee Neil Gorsuch's Supreme Court nomination? That he's too business friendly? What world of un-reality are these Democrats living in? Seriously, Democrats, what the bleep?

Because the entire point of government (in a capitalistic society, which memo to Democrats, we live in a capitalistic society) is to be business friendly. And dare we say, the entire business of governement is to be business friendly. We're running a country here. Not a charity. (And we all know how Democrats run a charity; see Foundation, Clinton.) And lest we all forget, it is the we that counts, for this is a country for the people, and by the people. We the people. And yet, besides the fact that the 9th circus-court keeps giving we the people the royal middle finger, like some buncha retro-royal-wannabes, but more like royal pains in the bleep, the Democrats want to block the nomination of a legal-genius who is also a totally stand-up guy, and will tell the 9th circus-court exactly where they can put their retro-royal-wannabe fingers: right up their royal-activist-bleeps.

(And funny how that activist-judge down in Hawaii was a Harvard Law School classmate of Barrack Hosein Obama's, and totally partied together. As was Neil Gorsuch their classmate, although I bet they never partied together. As was the most brilliant legal mind I've ever personally known, and partied with, Ken Mehlman, aka "Larry Bud" Mehlman, a totally cool juxta-nickname, since the real Larry Bud could never get in, let alone graduate from Harvard Law, and then get a president (George W. Bush) re-elected, brilliantly, like Ken Mehlman did. (What said president did to our country is questionable, at best, but Ken Mehlman did his job brilliantly. And George W. Bush's job? Not so brilliant.) Of course, the real Larry Bud could be a judge on the 9th circus-court, because that judge down there in Hawaii may be Larry Bud in disguise, and smoking all kinds of maui-wowie, because he's acting all kinds of stoopid. Like he's still in the choom gang. Or trying to resurrect the choom gang. But either way, he's acting like a dope. And a clown. And a clear puppet for Barrack Hosein Obama, who's clearly a puppet of Vladimir Putin, and doesn't even know it.)

So memo to the 9th circus-court: you interpret the law, you don't make the law. This is like Law 101. Even we the people learned this, in like the 4th grade. So come on, men and women of the 9th circus-court, do your job, and leave the law-making to Congress. That's their job. And when called for, leave it to the smartest man in the room, President Donald J. Trump. And yes, he's the smartest man in the room, because he's the President of the United States of America, and you're not. Because he got himself elected President, by we the people, and you didn't. Because President Trump is a genius. (An under-rated genius, but a total genius none-the-less, because he got himself elected President. That's just genius.) So how about you Democrats let the man do his job, because only an idiot-Democrat would work against our own country. Or, are you Democrats deathly terrified that he'll succeed? And make the last president look like a doubly-incompetent fool? And when he does succeed, and he will, are you Democrats terrified that people will be happy again, because we're all making money again, real money, and spending real money again, which allows other people (we know that you Democrats, especially you progressives, don't understand the concept of other people, but please try) to make money again, and spend money again, and all of it will happen under-budget and ahead of schedule? So God bless you, President Trump, for being a business-first total-genius non-politician who got elected to make our country business-friendly-prosperous and safe again. Because we're not running a charity here.

And as for that puppet-master, Vladimir Putin, please be careful working with that guy, if you so choose, even if you are smarter than him. Because any potential merger there should be met with a microscope the size of the Hubble. It would be like GM and Chrysler merging. Ford would be bleeped. And, in a way, Ford is the birthplace of our modern capitalism. Allow the masses to make for the masses? Such brilliance. Such simplicity. And such a bleeping violation of its purity that Uber, the "ride-sharing" service, has updated that business-model to Ford 2.0. That is, Uber's going to be the next big Auto-manufacturer, and in every sense of the word. And you heard it here first. And what would Aldous Huxley think?

Dear Friends: What another week of news. As such, this is a follow-up open letter to our President Donald J. Trump.

     Dear President Trump:

Congratulations, if that's the correct word, or sentiment, for being proven right that code-name Barrack Hosein Obama spied on you. They can bicker the damn details all they want, but we here also see the same big picture that you do, and eagerly anticipate your next action. We were with you from the very start, and always will be. 100%.

Also previously, we here gave you 100% full support to repeal Obamacare, but 0% to repeat Obamacare. We will all accept a straight repeal instead, because is it possible that Obamacare "survives" if replaced by Trumpcare and Trumpcare flat-lines? Would Obamacare blame Trumpcare for flat-lining both? (And then, for global warming? And for every other insanity under the sun, which they've caused, but only blame others for? Please draw upon your keenest negotiating powers here, because it needs to be made right the first time around.) So how about if we just call it Health Insurance. And if Obamacare was the socialist checkmate to redistribute the wealth (to government) and destroy our middle class, you should checkmate the rematch through absolute free market capitalism. And call it Health Insurance.

And foremost, destroy ISIS, and any and all forms of radical Islamic terrorism, ASAP. This is a daunting task. We here understand this. But feel free to use any and all means possible, and we here mean any and all means acceptable to fight evil, because we are fighting evil, and to recruit any and all allies possible, and if you have to ban all people and devices that would potentially harm us until proper extreme-vetting is in place, do so. And build that wall as high as you can, and as fast as you can, and invoice Mexico for it, and after 90 days, there is to be 1.5% interest added. And pay no attention to those Democrats, liberal or progressive or otherwise insane, who would oppose you in the name of insanely-misguided sanctuary. Their insanity needs to be stopped.

President Trump, you have a historically difficult task ahead of you to defeat the multi-pronged attack from without, within, and within. But you have our full 100% support to make it a win-win-win. And with all due respect, this is not baseball. 2 out of 3 will simply not cut it, even if you knock the cover off of 2 out of 3. We will happily and thankfully accept 3 manufactured runs, even if it takes a bit more time, as long as we all score in the long run, and we all win.

Respectfully,

All of Us

Dear Friends: So, who's still alive in their office pool? Thought so. It's probably worth about 2 gallons of nothing by now. Because if you picked Gonzaga and Oregon and UNC and USC (not that USC, this year's USC) you're some kind of genius. And none of us here are geniuses. Especially you, CCDuke. (And how's that for a pen-name-pun?)

Because on the west-side, we'll give you Gonzaga. (Although, the Zags zigged out to a regular season undefeated winning streak before faltering (like the GS Warriors in last year's NBA final, or the Patriots in the 07 Super Bowl) and looked like they were gonna be guilty of peaking early and coming up short, until they righted the ship and won their a place in the Final Four, but still seem like they may have peaked early. And remember the good old days, when Tom Brady still occasionally lost? Well, a note to our President Trump: occasionally, we lose. We all do. But a loss in the short term only prepares us to win in the long term. And we here all still think you're just like Tom Brady, and with all the trophies to prove it, and you will right the ship. And by the way, huge win getting Brady's jersey back.) But picking Oregon? Come on, man. If you picked that, you guessed. And it was probably a blind guess. Because frankly, they may have blinded their way to the Final Four. (Blinded their way? Huh? Yeah, those uniforms are blinding. And please stop. My dog is going bonkers chasing you all over the screen.) But that kid Jordan Bell can really ring it up. (Which for the unititiated, ring it up is a play on hoop it up, except if your name is Bell, you ring it up. Sports-cliche-puns are the best.)

And on the east-side, we'll give you UNC, aka Carolina to the entire basketball world, somehow (and more on that later), although 4 out of 5 of us Dear Friends wouldn't pick Carolina for anything but to go to hell. (That's a joke, people. We don't damn people here. But Carolina can go to hell.) And 1 out of 5 of us likely picked Villanova, so all of us here are in the same boat load of early exits. Of course, and just like myself, Villanova guy likely didn't play a pool, because Villanova guy isn't a gambler, unlike myself. Proving once again that Villanova guys are smarter than Duke guys, occasionally. And Villanova guy has the income to prove it. (He married up.) And I'm just not smart enough to play a pool. Although, I could probably let my dog pick for me, and exclusively based on uniforms. Whatever. It's just as good a strategy as any. But those 'hopefully to be tarred-and-feathered-heels' of Carolina, in their pseudo-blue uniforms, as if that's any real color of blue, as if, because as pseudo-blue as Carolina is, they're probably crushing Oregon, and the only good thing there, the only good thing, is that they save my dog from going bonkers chasing neon all over the screen. Unless, of course, Bell rings it and rings it over and over again. And we here will certainly root for that, even if my dog has to go temporarily bonkers for a bit longer. But dabnammit, as Roy Williams might say, Carolina is just too namn good this year, and Oregon probably isn't ready for the prime-time. (And that's a neon-Deion reference, for no other reason than sports-cliche-puns are the best.)

Which brings us to South Carolina, and who is apparently only the other Carolina. Puh-lease. Because who the heck picked them, right? You'd hafta be a genius, or from South Carolina. (Which fyi, because you probably didn't know this, and I didn't either, until I heard it, that South Carolina is a state well known for many things, but not so much their bar-b-que, which is apparently divided into four separate bar-b-que zones, by region within South Carolina, and apparently based on the bar-b-que base, as in ketchup or mustard, which quickly climbs them up the ladder of unknown culinary state status. And speaking of one of my favorite subject's in the whole world, bar-b-que, in my humble 'my bar-b-que will kick your bar-b-que's butt any day of the week', and anywhere, anytime, and you have my word on that, because my bar-b-que method is best called char-b-que, which I'm now officially intellectually-copyright-trademarking as Char-B-Que^TM, and speaking of, I'm now Intellectually-Copyright-TradeMarking that concept itself as ICTM, so I now officially own Char-B-Que^ICTM, and in my humble Char-B-Que^ICTM opinion: Burgers and hot dogs are the clear fan-favorite bar-b-que food, period. And should only be char-b-que'd by accident, although charred burgers are pretty good, if only accidentally. But go medium-rare-and-uncharred for best results. Seared, yes. Charred, only by accident. Hot dogs are good any way you make em, but please, with mustard only. (And raw onions, if you're middle-aged or older, for the taste, of course, and most important, for the fiber.) And second best are my Char-B-Que'd^ICTM chicken thighs, which if I ever marketed, I would be the King of all Food. No joke. And there's zero chance in UNC that I'll give you my method, or the recipe for my sauce, until my dying breath. (But hint: for chicken thighs, go with a ketchup-based sauce.) And if you really love and understand bar-b-que, then you know that it's all about the ribs, and only the ribs. (And brisket people and pulled-anything people can go to UNC.) A little history here: back in the day, an old-school black man once advised me, standing in the meat aisle of the local ACME supermarket, that in order to do ribs right, and I quote, "You gotta boil the ribs first." A fine idea, at the time, and I used that method for years. But I was young, dumb, and still bar-b-que-impressionable. I know better now. This isn't my first bar-b-que. So if you really wanna do ribs right: the Salt Lick 2-step process, out of Texas. What you'll need: A rack of ribs, preferably baby-back ribs. A bottle of Salt Lick mustard-soybean-oil based sauce, mild or spicy, but go with the spicy. A bottle of Salt Lick mustard-non-soybean-oil-but-spicy-as-a-SOB dry rub, which also comes in the mild, if you wanna waste your time. And, you'll need a bar-b-que. And the method:

1. Apply dry rub to (unboiled) ribs, and apply liberally, especially if you're a conservative. (Culinary irony is the best, after sports-cliche-puns.)
2. Throw ribs on a super-sear-hot grill, and maintain a high-level of heat. (Charcoal is best, but gas also works, if you have no other choice. And if you use aluminum foil in any way shape or form, you should be banned from bar-b-que-ing any and all bar-b-que forever.)
3. Flip early and often to achieve the desired level of charred-ness.
4. Once the preferred charred-ness is achieved, then, and only then, apply the sauce, but not liberally, and only as a finishing sauce. It is soybean-oil based, so it will over-charr if not done precisely as such.
5. Eat.

Now, there's probably an alternate method that calls for progressive-charring rather than quick-charring. But we don't do tofu here. And never will. We will do seafood, occasionally, and veggies, cause you gotta have your fiber, but we like our meats here. And whether ketchup-based or mustard-based, we love our sauce. Which brings us back to South Carolina, and culinary-wise, my experiences there have been in Charleston, Hilton Head, and Myrtle Beach. Imagine fine cuisine in Charleston, early-bird cuisine in Hilton Head, and the Hooters in Myrtle Beach. But what a Hooters. Maybe the grand-daddy of them all, given the golf-friendly and college-friendly atmosphere, and of course, all the hooters. And if you can eat an entire plate of the thermo-nuclear hot-wings, you are the man. And if you pick South Carolina to win the Final Four, I'm right there with you.

And as such, the Final Four in Phoenix (home of one of the largest senior-citizen populations in the country, and represented by one of the oldest cronies in all of politics, John McCain, a total hero, but should totally go retire, to somewhere other than Phoenix, and one of the smallest young populations in the country, thus the sky-rocketing Obamacare premiums, and sky-rocketing like a Virgin Galactic rocket to the moon¹ ) promises to be a god one. And we here are officially picking both the east teams to beat both the west teams, and in the battle of north and south, go with the south. That's a tough team, with a tough coach, and a super-star caliber player in Sindarius Thornwell, and in that grand-daddy of all sports-cliches that are simply always right as rain: Defense. Wins. Championships. Bank on it. But please, bank on it responsibly.

¹Stephen Hawking² has been offered a free trip to space, and I personally am thrilled for him. And to all you non-believers out there, you see, there is a God.

²Stephen Hawking would totally get the equation: E v. W = N v. S. You don't have to be a genius, people.

Dear Friends: Do we all remember chemistry class? Electrons and protons and neutrons and test-tubes and beakers and pipettes and every bleeping thing measured in liters and milliliters and bleeping moles? Moles? What the bleep is a mole, anyway? Like, I know what a mole is, but I have no idea what a mole is? It just seems like such a randomly accidental name for a unit of measurement, right?

But of course, I'm no chemical genius. (Funny story there: my high school chemistry teacher, a well-liked teacher, by most, and we're talking 10th grade chemistry here, not the abysmal AP Chemistry (a whole other, not so funny story, unless you're into pop-quizzes from hell), but my 10th grade chemistry teacher had the unfortunate misfortune of having a large mole on his cheek, but fortunately, it was a non-hairy mole. (Although, it was large. And raised. But non-hairy.) Poor guy. A chemistry teacher nicknamed mole. And in typically cliched high school fashion, some a-hole (excuse the French), who probably sucked at chemistry, had scrawled the word mole in big, perma-ink black letters behind the back of the pull-down periodic chart, and although hidden from all, we all knew it was there. But I liked my 10th grade chemistry teacher (and also liked my AP teacher, despite the pop-quizzes from hell), and did quite well in his chemistry class. And, in a funny irony, he never once pronounced my name right, not even once. Yeah, I was one of those foreign-smart-oxymoron kids. But I learned my chemistry, and he helped thicken my skin. Which thankfully, is still relatively mole-free. But we all get our moles eventually. And hopefully, all of the non-hairy variety.)

And now, despite my clear talent for chemistry of the non-AP variety, I'm no Doctor of Chemistry, nor a Doctor of Pimple-popping/Mole-removal, nor a Doctor of anything, so I'm not in the solution business. (And I have no claim to pointing out problems without providing solutions, since that's the exclusive providence of progressives.) Now, I'm much more into the question-asking business, and since it's a business, let's call it Skeptics-R-Us^ICTM, and as for the chemistry of our government, lately, there sure does seem to be a whole lotta moles.

Question #1: Who is Doctor Evelyn Farkas? And what exactly is she a doctor of? Presumably, is she a Doctor of Russian Studies in Illegal Intelligence Dissemination? And if a lower-level government beaurocrat (a technical term, so) in the code-name Barrack Hosein Obama administration had access to high-level top-secret intelligence, Russian or otherwise, what the bleep? And then, she worked for the Hillary campaign? Like yo, double down on what the bleep, right? And then, she gives an interview on a cable "news-show" on all of the above? And now seems to be getting a pass from the entire liberal-media-industrial-fake-news-complex? And shouldn't this whole issue be handled far more simply? Like by a true professional? As in a Doctor of Jurisprudence?

Solution: Doctor Evelyn Farkas should definitely be re-interviewed, and we here nominate South Carolina Congressman Trey Gowdy to do it, because that man rocks an interview like no other. A+ total SC Gamecock, and he has the haircut to prove it, because he wears it like a Gamecock crown, and wears it well. And if his haircut is a ruse designed for you to underestimate him, well played, Congressman. You don't want to underestimate him. He rocks an interview. Like no other. And we love ya for it, Congressman Trey Gowdy. 

Question #2: What has Chelsea Clinton ever done to achieve a lifetime achievement award in anything? Isn't she like all of 37 years old? And other than landing a $650,000 a year (her minimum wage) job as a "journalist"¹ (despite her clear talent for so much more), and being born a Clinton, is there anything else? And as for her journalistic chops, just imagine the journalistic intuition it must've taken to question whether the "photo" of Abraham Lincoln wearing a red Make America Great Again hat was, and I'm quoting Chelsea here, "Please tell me this is photoshopped. Please?" Really, Chelsea? Abe Lincoln wearing a MAGA hat, like what, during the past campaign? Or maybe Honest Abe had that photo taken during his own campaign?

Solution: Enquiring minds want to know, and if National Enquirer is hiring, you know what to do, Chelsea.

Question #3: When is Big Pharma gonna get into the medical marijuana business already? Come on, man, right? Haven't we all gotten the memo yet that marijuana won't kill you, and it won't addict you, and is clearly so much better for you than being addicted to bleeping opioids? Even I know this, and am I a chemist? And didn't I already answer that question? And in a way, isn't opioid addiction a modern plague, and in a way, created by Big Phama? We all understand it was a purely unintentional plague, Big Pharma, and we all value what you do, but shouldn't amends be made? And don't we all know by now to trust private enterprise and free market capitalism to do absolutely every-and-anything better than the government?

Solution: Government, you regulate it. And Big Pharma, you produce and provide it, and price it reasonably, for crying out loud, and any and all people addicted to opioids need to sign up for it, immediately, and take two tokes, and you'll wanna get up in the morning again. But please, and as always, toke responsibly, and afterwards, eat responsibly, but laugh at will, because although addiction is absolutely no joking matter, laughter is truly the best medicine, which is what we try to prescribe here. And which, somehow, brings us all back to Chelsea Clinton.

¹Chelsea Clinton probably invented the whole fake-news phenomena², when you think about it, which is quite the achievement.

²See Couric, Katie and Koppel, Ted for recent examples of Chelsea Clinton's pioneering journalistic work.

Dear Friends: Our President Donald J. Trump stands at seventy-four days into his job as Commander in Chief-butt-kicker in the world, and if you get the 'it goes to eleven' reference, then you know his job has been an eleven. And if you don't get the reference,¹ it means he's kicking butt. And soon to be taking names. And all of it under a level of scrutiny Edgar J. Hoover would have been master of, and that guy knew a thing or two about scrutiny. And under a level of criticism by the liberal-media-industrial-fake-news complex that Chelsea Clinton would be master of, and she knows a thing or two about nothing. And yet, despite the eleven-level job President Trump's doing, under Hoover-level scrutiny, and Clinton-level criticism, of which the latest scruti-cism is that he wouldn't throw out the first pitch at the Washington Nationals' home-opener, his job has been an eleven. And then some.

And simply said, he's too busy for baseball. And frankly said, if he's gonna get some exercise, we'd all rather he played a round of golf. As many as he likes, in fact. That's how business people do business, people. And if he decides to drive out the first drive at The Masters this weekend, we're all in. He's the President, and he works 12-15 hours a day, 6-7 days a week. (Reports of a 7 days a week work-week seem kinda fake-news-ish, kinda, but reports of the Russian dressing joke were accurately hilarious. Bravo, Sean Spicer. That was a Russian dressing-down. And take that, Melissa McCarthy. He can be funny, too.) And when it comes to golf, President Trump's the man.

However, and with all due respect, he's gotta throw out a first pitch, if not that particular first pitch. It's essential. This is still America here. Which is still synonymous with baseball. And hot dogs, with mustard. And apple pie. And Chevrolet. (Until Uber takes over. Note to President Trump: Please do not allow Uber to take over. We loooove driving our cars here. And then some. This is still America here.) And as for producing the cars that the entire world likes most, the USA is still #1. Still. And always will be. (When I was younger and still in the land of middle-eastern state-made clap-trap not named Citroen (although we had one of those, too, but preferred our Land Rover), an automatic transmission was the coolest thing ever. And power windows and locks were like a sci-fi dream come true. But let's please leave it at that. Driverless cars seem like they have the potential to lead us into a sci-fi nightmare. Seriously.) And if we're gonna let any car company take over, it should be Jeep. I know Jeep is Chrysler, but you all know what I mean. Jeeps are the best, in all their shapes and forms, because Jeeps are as loyal as a dog. And dogs love Jeeps. And we love our dogs. Because this is America here.

And, in the non-Jeep category, is there any sports car in the entire world that can out-pace a Corvette? Come on, man. Not even. We set the sports-car-bar high in this country. And I personally guarantee that if we ever sponsored a worldwide competition for every country in the world to produce their single-fastest-sports-car-ever, we would win. Easily. Because we could produce a Corvette that could reach warp-speed, if we chose to. We simply don't choose to. We'd just simply produce a darn fast Corvette, and put it on any 1/4 mile track in the world (and we'd insist it be a 1/4 mile track, because a 1/4 mile kicks any kilometer's butt, any day of the Monday through Sunday work-week), especially if the track's in Germany, or Italy. We'd love to kick that Euro-off-the-trash-heap Italian butt all over their own track, and Italy, German sports cars also kick your Italian sports car derrières (meh, mixed metaphor, but that's the only way to represent French cars. Peugeot? Huh? And don't get me started on Citroen. And as for the English, their cars may as well all be called Spit-fires, they spend so much time in the shop), and would also kick it all over the track, and any day of the short-work European work-week. And when we're talking German sports cars here, we're talking Porsche. And when we're talking Porsche, we're talking the 959. Which should totally be resurrected, Magnesium wheels and all, simply so the Corvette can kick its butt, Magnesium wheels and all, with our Corvette fiberglass that makes it fly as if at warp-speed and on rubber-like-no-other tires and our way-cooler Corvette wheels, and put this debate to rest. And the 959 back to rust. Because the Corvette would be faster than the 959, and therefore, by extrapolation, the fastest car in the world. Period.

And as for a presidential first pitch, the bar there is set so low, President Trump will laugh. (He should have his staff YouTube a video of the last president to throw out a first pitch. Do you know who that was? The last president. And, the last president is now a technical term, as he's taken over that distinction from the former last president, Jimmy Carter. Yes, the last president is now the last president, after Jimmy Carter.) He'll laugh because the last president tried to throw a fastball, flip-flopped into a curveball, mid-wind-up, and ended up throwing an Eephus ball. Which was a whole lot outside. (A feat topped only by his having missed 19 straight basketball shots, also probably on YouTube. And quite possibly, Eephus-and-outside is the worst-funniest pitch combo in the history of first pitches, including 50 Cents's. Which by the way, which genius thought it a good idea to allow a fictionally coined gangsta-rap-guy pitch a first anything? And as for 50 Cent being pronounced Fitty Cent, and not Fiddy Cent, was their an unknown rap-war between Fiddy and Diddy? And did Diddy win, so Fiddy became Fitty? Enquiring minds want to know. And you know what to do, Chelsea.) 

And President Trump's first pitch wouldn't have to compete with George W. Bush's legendary perfect strike like it was pitched by Mariano Rivera pitch, which was the best first pitch ever, and simply untoppable. And of course, it's now too late for President Trump to throw out the first pitch at that Home Opener anyway (Marlins are up 2-1 in the bottom of the 7th), but that's okay. In fact, it's a brilliant strategy. President Trump should throw out the first pitch of the second game of the season. After all, all he needs to do to beat the last president's first pitch is basically just show up. Of course, they'll definitely protest him, in the form of boos, but he's gotta show up and show em all he can throw a strike when called upon. And we here know he can, since just like George W. Bush, President Trump actually played baseball. And well.

And as for the boos, we here have a simple solution for that: President Trump is more than welcome, as far as I'm personally concerned, to wear a red Philadelphia Phillies jacket to pitch the first pitch of the Nationals' second game. It's a deeper shade of red than the Nationals'. And they would boo the jacket, and not the President. And we here would gladly take the boos for the President. It would be an absolute honor to do so.

¹See "This Is Spinal Tap." (Embassy Pictures; 1984). You'll love it.

Dear Friends: Global warming, aka climate change, aka the progressive attack on capitalism, aka that complete hoax on every level, is also known as bull-bleep. I'll keep this short: global warming/cooling is a natural fluctuation that's occurred on Earth for eons (a short word for a gargantuan 4,000,000,000 plus billion year huge length of time) and will continue for eons more, until that final global warming when the sun explodes/implodes/goes all dwarf-y on us before going all black hole on us, and that's that. (That is, if we're still here on Earth. By then, we may all be extinct due to natural causes, extinct due to Artificial Intelligence, or we've all moved to a different galaxy. And left all the progressives behind.) And, given the benefit of the foresight to have pre-emptive hindsight, if we're no longer here, it's because progressives set the world on fire, literally, metaphorically, and metaphysically.

Literally: let's start with that Bastard Al-Assad, who's a bastard and an ass all rolled up into one of history's ugliest pieces of inhumanity. There's evil in the world, we all know this, but it's an evil evil that would chemically bomb innocent children. (Are we all aware that radical Islamic terrorists target children because it leaves a deeper scar in the rest of us? Google it, because Google et.al. and the entire internet-sewer-complex is complicit. Thanks Google et.al., for not being evil, and yet allowing evil to spread so virally. And if Google et.al. has a problem with that claim, Google et.al. can sue me. The proof is there; you can Google it. And are we all starting to see the eternal circle of hell the internet really is? Memo to us all: there's no escape from the internet. It's here to stay. And if you think you can simply avoid it, think again. The internet doesn't allow for thought. But, and of course, I digress. The internet will do that to you.) And that Bastard Al-Assad should never escape capture, nor the public humiliation of a tribunal at The Hague, nor the public humilitation of a brief stay at Gitmo before the public humiliation of a public execution, preferably by submerging him up to his chicken-neck in a vat of Sarin gas. That's cruel and unusual punishment, no doubt there, but that bastard deserves no mercy. Bleep him. And his chicken-neck. (And we here place the blame for that Bastard Al-Assad on progressives, because if the road to hell is paved with good intentions, in theory, in reality the road to hell is paved by the bad faith of progressives, and their fearful leader, code-name Barrack Hosein Obama. He spawned Al-Assad, ISIS, a soon to be nuclear Iran, and a soon to be capable of striking mainland USA nuclear North Korea, and he did it all by pretending Vladimir Putin was a relic of the eighties, and that's just off the top of the list.) And as such, let's end this with that fat guy in North Korea, who's as looney as a hydrogen-blimp-in-hindsight, with all the red flags in place to prove it, and yes, if we wait long enough, he'll simply balloon until he bursts into a fireball of his own spontaneous gaseous combustions (a phenomena also know, in this country, as Obamacare), but in order to prevent him from first-nuking us in the short-term, literally, let's nuke him metaphorically. (We can send that fat cow some magic beans, which he'll undoubtedly eat, and -- Boom. Problem solved.)

Metaphorically: our government, and by extension our entire country, is a ticking time-bomb ticking toward a modern-day "civil" war, and if you doubt that, look no farther than the Senate of the United States of America, that great deliberative body, who's leadership, through very un-deliberate deliberation, invoked the "nuclear option" to counter the bleeping Democrats (aka progressives, now, as all Democrats are are now acting like progressives) and all their filibustering (aka full-of-blustering, amongst being full of other things) of Judge Neil Gorsuch as if he were satan himself. (Memo to Democrats: Judge Neil Gorsuch isn't satan. Satan is a Democrat, who tried to progressively usurp God. Just ask Dana Carvey. And memo to Senator E. (Alfred) Warren: you need help. Seek it.) In fact, Judge Neil Gorsuch appears almost saintly as far as judges go these days: he's rational, reasonable, and conservative, and conservative in a rational and reasonable way, which is the very definition of conservatism. And yet, Democrats are acting like he's satan. And even more looney-progressive than that, Democrats are acting like Susan Rice is some sorta saint. Now, what we have there is the makings of the biggest political scandal since a bunch of buffoons burglarized George McGovern, which was like if the New England Patriots stole plays for an upcoming game against the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and Susan Rice is dead-center of it all. But of course we all know she's the cover for code-name Barrack Hosein Obama, and since she's a black woman, she'll get a pass. But not from us. Susan Rice is guilty as sin for spying on political opponents for code-name Barrack Hosein Obama, for the political gain of code-name Barrack Hosein Obama, and herself, and in typically incompetent fashion, they botched the job. And we can all thank God for that, in the metaphysical sense, because God has a sense of humor, in the metaphysical sense.

Metaphysically: the only question in life worth asking and answering is the simplest: Why? (If you're thoughtful, you may answer: Why what? If you're humorous, you may answer: Why not? And if you're a smartass progressive, you answer: Because.) Of course, it's a deceptively simple question, since it's such a loaded question, as illustrated by the requisite responses above. But let's keep it simple here: Why are progressives so dead-set on destroying our country and the world at large? And good luck getting an honest answer out of progressives on that one, since progressives all think they're saving the world. (Memo to progressives: you're not saving the world, as you're the problem, not the solution; please resume growing tofu out of your own composted bull-bleep, and leave the world-saving to those with a clue, a heart, and a soul.) Because everything that guides the progressive-playbook is based on bad faith, or worse, no faith. Did progressives ever get the memo that their fearful leader, code-name Barrack Hosein Obama, wanted to damn America, with the help of his unrepentant domestic-terrorist friends, and by somehow managing to also get the help of radical Islamic terrorists through his sheer incompetence commingled with his sheer bad faith, and people like Susan Rice? (If not, Google it; you progressives are competent at that.) But the good faith of the American people will always persevere, as we always have when faced with any form of evil in the world, because in the fight between good and evil, the good always wins. Every time. And timing is everything. And yes, we all hope and pray for an after-life when our time on Earth is up, and hope and prayer are true weapons against the evil of anarchy and chaos, but only when hope and prayer are paired with the impenetrable shield of love can we achieve this Heaven on Earth, which we all know as the good old U. S. of A. (And if we ever let progressives lead us again, we'll all have to move to a different galaxy.) But we won't let that happen, because we all hope for, pray for, and have absolute love for the good old U. S. of A. And while symbolic weapons are essential to the fight, any fight, a boat load or two of Tomahawk missiles also works. Because God demands we fight for all of His children with any means available, and that our leaders understand this principle and apply it prudently. And with that in our hearts and minds, God bless the United States of America, God bless the entire world, and God bless our fearless leader, President Donald J. Trump.   

Dear Friends: The world lost a true comedic genius this past week when insult-comedy-legend Don "Mister Warmth" Rickles passed on to that all-star stand-up stage in the sky. He was truly a one-of-a-kind, and in every sense of the word. Everybody just loved him for how kindly he insulted you.

From the moment he insulted a front-row sitting Frank Sinatra with, "Make yourself at home, Frank. Hit somebody," Don Rickles catapulted to a multi-decade career as resident-insult-king of stage and screen, and in his greatest act of all, was universally loved for it. Because it wasn't an act. He was just that genuinely loveable. (And in a Sinatra side-note, I believe it was Henny Youngman, but don't quote me on that, who joked, "Frank Sinatra once saved my life. These five guys were beating me up, and Frank said, 'You can stop now'.")

So with the greatest of respect for the Ricklesian sense of humor and style of comedy, the following is a list of the top 50 or so insults we all commonly hear on a regular basis, and in no particular order, other than right off the cuff. And if you get the insults, you've got a sense of humor. If you don't get the insults, you're a dummy. And if you get insulted, you're a bigger dummy, dummy.

Gotcha!

Dear Friends: It's day eighty-four, and as predicted right here, way back in the day, also known as day ten, our President Donald J. Trump hasn't blown up the world yet, and has no plans to do so. But he certainly is bombing the bleep out of our enemies. Just like he said he would.

And he's doing it in a multi-faceted, multi-pronged, multi-competent attack clearly orchestrated by a man who hires the best, tells them to get to work, listens to what they have to say, and in the case of the military, says have at it. And gives them the authority to have at it. (And gives full credit to the military for the job well done, in both decision and delivery.) And, of course, he allows them the weapons to have at it, and we got some big bleeping weapons in this country, the biggest of which (in the non-nuke category) is the Massive Ordinance Air Blast, aka the M.O.A.B., aka the Mother Of All Bombs, aka the 'if you're gonna go big, go huge' bomb.

But they should probably call it the Moaby Dick. (And in one of those war-rituals, the military should paint Moaby Dick on its warhead, in huge letters.) It's the size of a whale, measuring in at a whopping 30 or so feet, and packing a whale's-ton load of ordinance, some 20,600 lbs., or so, which is like 10 or so tons, or like 20.6 Tomohawk missiles, and spouts out a whale's-plume of smoke some 10,000 feet in to air, which is like sending the entire world a smoke-signal that clearly says, "Don't bleep with Us. We have the Mother Of All Bombs. And we'll use it. Have a nice day."

In fact, the thing is so whale-like, it can't be delivered by a bomber, it requires the Hercules C-130 cargo plane, and as such, must be physically pushed out the back, and when it hits, said plane better be well on its way. (It detonates into a one mile blast-radius, which, if my 10th grade Geometry teacher was correct, would be a blast two miles wide. But don't quote me on that. Do quote me that it leaves a 300 foot wide crater, which is basically a football field wide. Huge message.)

And the irony of the whole push it out the back delivery method invokes none other than Stanley Kubrick's cinematic masterpiece, "Dr. Strangleove Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb," quite possibly the funniest "war" movie ever made. (Anti-war movies abound, but it took a genius like Kubrick to make one of cinema's foremost comedic masterpieces about nuclear war, during the height of the Cold War. But of course, Kubrick's genius was to use the best technical equipment and techniques available to him, and the experts to help him operate such, and most important, the finest actors to help him realize his vision. (Maybe genius begets genius, but it's all about the team, if you're also smart.) And if you haven't seen "Dr. Strangleove", watch it for the three part virtuoso performance by Peter Sellers (a total fan-favorite here; see also "Party, The"), and for maybe the funniest comedic name ever in Col. 'Bat' Guano (think about that one for a sec; it's funny), and Slim Pickens, maybe one of the funniest "real" names in all of Hollywood history, in one of the funniest I-shouldn't-laugh-but-I-can't-help-it scenes ever, when his Maj. 'King' Kong rides The Bomb straight down toward the Soviets, cowboy style, and whooping it up the whole way, cowboy style, and with an actual cowboy hat, cowboy style.) And spoiler alert: that wasn't a spoiler alert. If you haven't seen "Dr. Strangelove," see it. You'll laugh at the absurdity of war.

Of course, war is only absurd to those not fighting it. And while all the snowflakes are out there flaking out, and all the protestors are out there protesting their right to protest other's rights to protests, and all the media worries about is whether United Airlines should be banned from doing business, forever, or whether Jared Kushner is at war with Steve Bannon -- wait, there's a war at the White House! Send in the troops! Where's Rachel Maddow! (Another perfect name, when you think about it.) -- while all this is happening, our President Trump is acting like the leader genius that he is. He's assembled his team of experts, he's giving them all the best equipment to their jobs, and he's being smart about it.

And while we offer no advice here, only skeptical opinions, the entire Kushner v. Bannon deal seems especially brilliant to us. Steve Bannon, the man with the resume as if tailor-made for his role, seems like the kinda cowboy who would ride The Bomb for us all, if called on to do so, and wouldn't blink an eye doing it. Jared Kushner, the man with the resume tailor-made for a lot still to accomplish, should work with Steve Bannon in whatever role primes him for his future role as the first first husband, for we here feel strongly that the first Lady President will be Ivanka Trump. And President Trump, Sir, you just keep bombing the bleep out of our enemies.

Dear Friends: If California, that country within our country, is the land of the double-standard (or, as Californians would say, the moral-high-ground land of the double-standard), then Silicon Valley is the land of the double-standard within the double-standard. And you probably need a double-algorithm to decipher that sentence. But I'm sure you can Google it (said algorithm), and, whether you like it or not, be prepared for Google to Google you back.

But let's leave the whole 'our privacy is bleeped' thing for another time, and stick to the economy, stupid. (Stupid being said Californians.) Here are the numbers, as reported in the news, so definitely don't quote me on them:

• Tech job in the USA: $80,000/year
• Tech job for an immigrant with an HB1 Visa, but obviously not educated in the USA: $35,000/year
• Tech job for Chelsea Clinton: $650,000/ year (minimum)

Now, as we all know, most tech jobs are in Silicon Valley, but apparently, all tech jobs in Silicon Valley now require an HB1 Visa. And as such, is there any difference between Silicon Valley and Napa Valley, when it comes to importing immigrants to do the work at a whopping cost-cutting ratio of 8:3.5/ year, since last time we checked, nobody here wanted to pick the grapes anyway? Everybody here just wants to drink the product. (Oooh, the product. Sounds so nefarious, except when it comes to wine. Seriously, why doesn't anybody ever smuggle fine wine? Or steal fine wine? Or counterfeit fine wine? Because it's just so much easier to buy it.) Anyway, I'm no economic, immigration, or employment genius. But at that kinda pay, at least the grape-pickers get an outdoor job in the California sun, with their very own Porta-John. And all the grapes they can eat. (Thus, their very own Porta-John.)

(Capitalist side-note: In the history of awesome ideas in routine hygiene, other than indoor plumbing, and toilet paper, is there any one thing that sticks out more then the dude who said, and I (liberally) quote, "Why can't we just have a portable pisser?" That dude was a total genius, but credited in a way-under-credited way, even if his name may have been John. So come on, man. Let's all recognize the dude as a total genius, in the field of (now) routinely portable hygiene. Heck, he may as well have invented the portable light bulb, except he probably wasn't a science geek. (Science geeks never leave the lab, so they'd never invent a portable pisser.) And I'm pretty sure we'd all rather have the portable pisser. (And of course, science geeks probably wouldn't invent a portable lightbulb, either. Or a portable anything, since they're all so lab-bound.) And I don't even digress here. We need our science geeks. And that Porta-John dude was a total genius.)

(Cinematic side-note: "Cast Away." That dude totally uses a Porta-John to escape the island. And to escape Wilson. (We never bought the crying, Tom Hanks. We know you loved Wilson, but only sometimes. But, huge job escaping that island via Porta-John.))

(Non-cinematic side-note: Would a progressive, let's say a PETA people, simply be appalled if forced to use a plastic anything to escape an island? And would said progressive ask, "Hmm. Wonder why they left me here, and haven't come back yet? It's been minutes already.")

But enough about the progressives. Those looneys have no idea when it comes to the economy. And it's not because they're stupid, which they are. And it's not because they're looney, which they also are. It's because they're lazy. (Musical side-note: Lana Del Rey, a total, total babe, sings in her new album, "Lust for Life," about going back to the office or the coffee shop, which for many progressives, is the same thing. And in a previous album, she sang about always wanting to "get high by the beach," or if you're a progressive, in a coffee shop by the beach. You get the picture. (Not an actual music review. A fake music review. (Not the music. The review.) Lana Del Rey is as totally talented as she is a total babe, even if she can't lip-synch, live, for bleep.) But enough about Lana Del Rey. Nobody wants to get high by the beach, or keep being young, or in love, if they're a progressive. Because progressives probably hate Lana Del Rey for her beauty. And her talent. And, her beauty. And I quote an unreliable progressive source here, "And somehow, that bleep can write songs and sing em. Except live.")

(Awesome news side-note: Was watching a fair and balanced news channel, the Tucker Carlson Tonight (TCT ) show, and Tucker interviewed a progressive defending Chelsea Clinton's Variety Lifetime Achievment Award. According to Variety, and their guy, well, it isn't quite a "lifetime achievement award." It's more of an achievment award that happens to be sponsored by Lifetime (the TV channel). And it won't be an awards dinner. It'll just be lunch. And we'll skip the analysis on how in her very short career Chelsea's managed to be a "journalist," a documentary film maker, a talk show host, and now, an Ivy League professor, but you get the picture.)

And anyway, back to Porta-Johns. And in the spirit of always fair and balanced satire, all of the time -- except, there's little satire about this subject: plastic sucks. You simply can't get rid of it. And there's no tree hugging going on here, but when you here about a 50 mile long "floating island" of discarded plastic in the Pacific, probably discarded by Californians (the whole double-standard thing) you simply have to question the wisdom of plastic. (With all due respect to plastic surgeons. We all love what you do.) 

Another argument for another day. But until then, can we get rid of all the progressives? As in, can we send them all to an island in the Pacific, near the South Pole, said island being better known as Antarctica, so they can keep track of all the icebergs for us? And the floating plastic? We'll provide the wine, the tofu, and the Porta-Johns.

Dear Friends: Fox News mega-news-star Bill O'Reilly, that twenty year heavyweight champion of all news, seems to have broken the cardinal rule of the news business: those in the news should never be in the news. Translated for the rest of us: he bleeped where he eats. Or allegedly bleeped where he eats. Or bleeped where he eats, allegedly. Who the bleep knows? He's denying it all. Although, we simply have to ask, would he deny it in the No-Spin Zone?

Enquiring minds want to know. So Chelsea, your first gig. (Whenever you find time away from your newest gig as Ivy League professor. A professor of what, we have no idea. Presumably, "The history of all things Clinton: A Philosophy." And maybe you teach a "journalism" class titled, "50 careers in 50 years: A (pre-emptive) memoir." And maybe, a history seminar titled, "Let them eat Cake." Or maybe even a survey course in Philosophy titled, "Why am I even here?" But of course, I digress. The Clintons will do that to you.)

So can we all instead imagine Chelsea Clinton, "former journalist," interviewing Bill O'Reilly, former journalist? (Without even considering the lame line about her needing a 5 ft. restraining order in order to interview him. That would be lame. And after all, it is Chelsea. And, I digress. Again. The Clintons simply do that to you.)

So instead, let's imagine up an interview between Bill O'Reilly (formerly of The O'Reilly Factor, and billed as: Caution! You're entering into the No-Spin Zone! (and yeah, let's see if that holds up)), and Chelsea Clinton, and Chelsea will be interviewing Bill -- where else but in the No-Spin Zone!

• Chelsea Clinton: So, Mister Bill O'Reilly, did you do it?
• Bill O'Reilly: No.
• CC: I believe you. Did you like my Mister Bill joke?
• BO: No.
• CC: But Mister Bill, it was written just for me! Just to say to you!
• BO: So?
• CC: By one of the best writers in the whole world!
• BO: So?
• CC: Don't you even wanna know who it is?
• BO: No.
• CC: But she 's the voice of my generation!
• BO: So?
• CC: And you still don't wanna know who it is?
• BO: No.
• CC: Well, it's Lena Dunhill.
• BO: Who?
• CC: Lena Dunhill!
• BO: (Blank stare.)
• CC: Mister Bill, I really thought you were gonna be a lot more fun than this.
• BO: How so?
• CC: 13 million dollars? Even my dad never spent that on --
• BO: Whoa.
• CC: Whoa what?
• BO: No.
• CC: No what?
• BO: No no.
• CC: Mister Bill, was that a double negative?
• CC: No.
• CC: Are you sure?
• BO: No.
• CC: Hmm.
• (A silence. A long silence. Chelsea consults her notes.)
• CC: So, Mister Bill O'Reilly, did you do it?
• BO: No! And why do you keep asking me that same question!
• (Another silence. A longer silence. Chelsea consults her notes again.)
• CC: Because enquiring minds want to know?

Indeed. But of course, minds that think outside the gutter only want to know one thing: what will Bill's comeback story be? Because there's definitely a story out there. And Bill O'Reilly definitely knows how to deliver the story. And America loves a comeback story.

Dear Friends: It's day ninety-seven of The First 100 Days of our President Donald J. Trump's job well done, and somehow, he's elevated it past eleven. Except for one thing. As such, a third open letter:

     Dear President Trump:

Congratulations on a job well done. If we were counting the days for you, which we are, and grading your job performance, which we also are, with all due respect, Sir, we're giving you a 97 on day ninety-seven. A high grade indeed, but not quite a perfect grade, which we know you expect.

Your signature achievment thus far, successfully placing now Supreme Court Justice Neil Gorsuch on the Supreme Court was a supreme victory. More so, it was only one of three successful bombing options successfully employed in your first 100 days. Huge wins. You've also accomplished more legislatively than any president before you, without passing a single piece of legislation, which is quite the achievement. And all of it without the cooperation of Democrats, the 9th Circuit Court, or Russia. But please do something about that pesky 9th Circuit Court. They seem to be all politics all the time, instead of the law, and we're on a questionable track when Ann Coulter can't speak freely at Berkeley, but the last president can speak freely on Wall Street, if by freely it means at $400,000/hour.

Which brings us to the economy. As of this writing, markets are up and rising, unemployment is down and falling, the economic mood is pure optimism, and the House Freedom Caucus has finally come on board to repeal and replace Obamacare. Patience is a virtue. Please continue to be patient. We all certainly have been with Obamacare. And we can all wait until all the numbers all add up. As such, your tax reform plan is also on its way, and given early reports, we anticipate its historical hugeness. The numbers there simply add up. Plus, given the many demands of your job, keeping jobs a number one priority is right in line with the number one priority for all of us.

Bringing us to the other equally important priority, our security. Your negotiations with world leaders have been masterful. Your deployment of our military might has been even more masterful. Frankly, the all around decision and delivery has been genius-like. But your decision to delay building the wall, with all due respect, is a mistake. And we're docking you three points for it. Build that wall, Mister President. We all know you can do it, under budget and ahead of schedule, and smart. Build it section by section if need be, where it's needed first and out from there, and only where it's practical to do so, but build that wall. This cannot be overstated, or its resonance underestimated. Please ignore their threats to shut down the government. They've been threatening that since The Days of Newt. And always in bad faith. And we all know they can't shut down the government any more than they already have.

More so, we all know you always know how to deliver the goods, and we believe in you.

Respectfully,

All of Us

Dear Friends: Day ninety-eight, and our President Donald J. Trump approaches Saturday's finish line picking up speed like Usain Bolt, on speed. He's been congratulated here already, and here's the most recent poll numbers:

• Would vote today for:
•      Trump  - 43%
•      Clinton - 40%

• Don't regret voting for:
•      Trump  - 92%
•      Clinton -   2%

• Question polls that never equal 100%:
•      Trump  - 97%
•      Clinton -   2%

But the polls have proven fake, anyway. We live in a world of fake news and fake poll numbers. And those books were cooked long ago. These days, you simply and predictably have to predict the unpredictable, by asking Vegas:

• 5,000 - 1.    Leicester City FC wins EPL Premiership in 2016 
• 5,000 - 1     Leicester City repeats EPL Premiership in 2017
• 500 - 1     Leicester implodes like a jelly donut in space and wins relegation in 2017
• 5 - 1     The Philadelphia Eagles, in a move to market ESPN'S NFL Draft in Philly, use their first round draft pick to draft Sylvester Stallone

It's certainly a tourist's market in Philly this week. ESPN has moved in and brought all their biggest and best toys with them. But not for Rocky-phytes. The steps have been staged, and any attempts at stage-climbing will be met by Clubber Lang. And if you travel in from Idaho or Iowa or Indiana or Uzbeketania, and expect to run up those stairs, don't. You will be arrested, and you will be subjected to immediate deportation: to Dallas. And that's a cruel and unusual punishment, indeed.

Draftwise: Odds are uncomfortably high (for all involved, except Mel Kuyper, who relishes in draft-day-drama vigorish) for the Eagles to solidify their offense by drafting Joe Mixon. He's the Oklahoma Sooners running back who punched a woman in the face, caught on video, and not named Ray Rice. So let's be Philly-frank here: bleep that guy. That guy doesn't belong in Philly.

A quick recent history: Michael Vick belonged in Philly. His crimes were heinous, but he paid for them with hard time, deserved and received a second chance, and has used it to become by all accounts a respectable citizen worthy of redemption. Riley Cooper should've had his racist butt kicked right the bleep out of Philly, immediately. That guy was a racist and all-around douche. (I have this on the good word of a cousin who was at a party when that guy showed up and was a total and all-around douche.) And Joe Mixon does not belong in Philly. 100 hours of community service? Come on, man. He belongs in Oakland.

Legal question: How long before concussions are linked to domestic violence? You just know there's a law firm out there in Berkeley working on it. Their equation: there's probably a fortune to be made in concussion-induced domestic violence. And fact: the average rookie contract is multiple times the later rounds, and those Berkeley lawyers will know exactly how to work that equation, with or without the blessing of Roger Goodell. But until then, we'll only agree to watch that guy on TV, and only as long as he's drafted by Oakland. In the 2nd round. He can't afford that lawyer yet, not in Berkeley. Pro Bono is no longer in the Berkeley lexicon. Even the protestors get paid these days, in Berkeley.

But in Philly, hope still remains for the Eagles to use the 14th pick in the first round to draft Stanford Cardinal running back Christian McCaffery. Gotta love the name. Gotta love the game. Gotta love that his dad is former NFLer Ed "Eddie" McCaffery. And fact: last time we checked, football is best played as a family business:

• Manning, Archie. et.al
• Mathews, Clay. et.al.
• Walken, Christopher. et.al.

Yes, in Maryland they know two things: football and crabcakes. But in Philly, we know two even better things: football and cheesesteaks. And Philly-ball kicks Mary-ball butt any day of the year. And a cheesesteak will kick any number of crabcakes' butts any day of any year.

It dates back to the founding fathers. They invented football, right here in Philly. There was Ben "Up the Gut" Franklin and George "Slinger" Washington and Tommy "No Shoes" Jefferson and the rest of the boys. And those boys really knew how to play. They played for horses. And for women. And for cheese. And if you lost, your women made the cheesesteaks, and made them out of your horses.

(Historical note: Using horse meat is still a common practice in some cheesesteak joints today, but only the ones we recommend to tourists. And little known fact: Ben "Up the Gut" Franklin, amongst his myriad of many inventions, also invented ketchup. Good old "Up the Gut" always thought outside the horse.) 

And well-known fact: A cheesesteak will kick the sandwich butt out of any sandwich in the world, anytime, anyplace, and I'll defend that claim to my grave, which also in fact may be earlier than hoped for, given all the cheesesteaks. 

And best-known fact, in fact: Philly owns the top three spots in Historical Sandwich Dominance:

1. Cheesesteak, made in Philly.
2. Roast Pork Sandwich, also made in Philly.
3. Italian Hoagie, only made in Philly.

I won't divulge the artistic details here. You'll just hafta visit and see. (Or, look in the footnotes.¹) And we have an old, un-said saying in Philly: you can have sandwich after sandwich in Philly, and never have the same sandwich twice, because each sandwich gets its own individual due, and its own individual respect, and each gets presented on the number one most necessary ingredient of all: its very own Philly roll. And we'll take on any and all challengers to that claim. Just show up, with your sandwich, and an appetite. We're always buying here. In Philly, that's how we always roll.

¹The Fundamentals. Cheesesteak: chipped beef, American cheese, fried onions, Amoroso's Roll, ketchup; Side: cheese-fries; Drink: beer, preferably Yuengling. Roast Pork Sandwich: sliced roast pork, sharp provolone, broccoli rabe, roasted red peppers, Termini Bros. roll; Side: long-hots; Drink: beer, preferably Peroni. Italian Hoagie: salami, Genoa or otherwise, prosciutto, Parma or otherwise, capicola, hot, dry, or cured, suprasetta, said just like that, mortadella, the more the betta, provolone, mild or sharp, always imported, mozzarella, fresh or aged, and on any Italian roll, soft, chewy, sesame, or all of the above, oil and/or mayo on the roll, with lettuce, tomatoe, onion, sweet and/or hot peppers, and all of it topped lovingly with oil and oregano; Side: salty chips; Drink: ice-cold coca-cola.

And please remember, with cheesesteaks and roast pork sandwiches, less is always more, but if you're gonna go grab an Italian hoagie, you always go huge. 

"How long, O Lord . . . How long? Where will it end? The only possible way out of this wretched campaign is the ever-increasing liklihood that it will cause the Democratic Party to self-destruct." - Doctor H. S. Thompson; Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail, '72; quoted from Generation of Swine

Dear Friends: The Good Doctor called it, as only he could, straight to the bone and forty-five years a priori, or if preferred of his tastes, forty-five years aged in hardest oak, prescriptions ahead of schedule and lined with guts, the genius literary gambler. It took a brute force of nature in an age of conscious (and constant) chemical enlightenment to endure. Between perpetual inebriation and perpetual hangover, inebriation. A rare performance indeed.

Would we have paid the price to gig along with the good Doctor and his hideous troupe of traveling side-kicks? Only if as advertised: the weekends in Vegas, the long-strange trips on trails of doom, the breakneck deadlines driven over hellish schedules, that satchel to be damned with the bats. And it's the bats that are hitchhiking the ride these days, swooping-in zig-zags and flashes of black light from places unknown, no longer even bothering to dress the part. Theirs was a cheap act anyway, always as advertised: caveat emptor.

No, good Sirs. I'd pay for the full ride, no cheap escapes here. Under the savage guidance of the good Doctor and the viciously altered ego of Raoul Duke and the sage-savage advice of the legal-genius Dr. Gonzo, ill as he was, by the end, maybe I'd be the better for The Story today. Maybe. For if they preached perseverance, to weed out any weakness of the heart, I imagine, they'd give up to this pit-chorus. Talent is the only height requirement, they'd say. And a flagon of good whiskey. And that satchel-full of drugs. They liked their drugs, with a serious perseverance.

Certainly a fine idea at the time. Everybody was cool with it, even the uncool with it, which made it hip to all the possibilities of vicarious living within that diverse community of drugs. All were allowed. And when they ran out, break out the good stuff. It took a village, and rainy days were never seldom, and when it finally got down to snowing in Colorado, it was always the good stuff. If you kept your wits, you got The Story.

We're all the better for it now, to be but the benign symptoms of that malignant disease. Coherence was an unnecessary liability in times of swine. Doctors of Journalism took the ride and came out alive, until their very last statement. Maybe the doomed do speak best for the doomed, and the good Doctor may have agreed. He was keen for the sentimental type, would've had his attorney draw up the agreements. He played his cards openly, and all bets were on.

And I'd have anted up to put down that bet with him, just once. Maybe I'd understand the game better today. Maybe. Then again, what's to understand? Stand your ground or take the ride. Only the doomed need not apply.

The doomed indeed. Those polls came in and were proven irrelevant. The winners won, the losers lost, a Socialist from Vermont collected the vigorish. And somehow avoided all suspicion, even if we knew better than to trust their ilk. They only want to spend your money. And would doom us all. It's the Socialists today who live by Nixon's words of yesterday: "Fuck the doomed."

I loathe that digress, for the profane has no place, yet find it necessary in an age of no hope for the bleating: Socialists would do that to us all. No amount of wool can warm those hearts, nor keep their disguise.

So Hope & Gloating on the Campaign Trail '20 begins with Hope on our side, Bloating on theirs, and an early campaign stop for our President to celebrate his First 100 Days where it all began, Pennsylvania, the State that put him over the top and hammered the nail in their coffin. And the watch is on as they dig deeper and deeper to their core, bloated indeed. Their constituency remains The Walking Dead, and they don't vote. No need to, when the brains are for free.

And The Train, O That Train, it pulls freely back onto The Trail, and we're reminded of that Chinese Proverb: The best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago, the second best time is today.

Or a Saturday night in Pennsylvania. Embraced with open arms. The current President is stronger than the last, works magnitudes faster and better and harder at all times day or night, and Vegas has placed the inside odds at 16 hours/day vs. 8 hours/week, but not for The Trail. Hard odds there. Tough to beat that run from 2004 through 2012, with that brief interlude in the fall of 2016.

And to count him out would be grave. The Rumors have him campaigning to run in 2020, and we believe it, given the war chest he's amassing at $32.5 Mil/book and $400K/hour. He's learned from the "mistakes" of the Clinton Foundation, and he was a capitalist all along. (Note: Emphasis is made by all involved that he's only campaigning to run, at 32.5 Mil and 400K.)

But he would be tough to beat. He couldn't run a D.C. shoe store, but when it came to The Trail, he ran on it like water. And now he's mad as Hillary that she lost, no longer even denying that he had the parachute-in-waiting for Joe, but Joe wouldn't bite. Maybe Joe knew better. We know they'll always wonder about that Biden/Sanders ticket to ride.

So allow the campaigns to begin! said the man, and if on the other side, abandon all hope if you enter. The people have spoken. Politics is blood-sport, and only strength and endurance survive. And money. It's always been about the money. What else is there? they say. Only the doomed need not apply. 

And so your humble narrator concludes this chronicle of 100 Days with a head full of hope and a heart beating red. The time has come for us all, and time must be taken to contemplate the story at large, with a solid ear to the ground-swell that is America in the year of our Lord, 2017, and an ever-present eye for The Fine Line.      

Respectfully submitted, and to be continued...

THD; May 2, 2017

With all and every due respect to Hunter S. Thompson, Doctor of Journalism. I once knew what the S. stood for. I've since forgotten. Remembering would not have been his style.