A Portrait of Honor

Liberals are already planning a place of honor for their dictator president. Much debate is taking place by pundits from various news sources about why Obama belongs on Mount Rushmore. If you search just for a few nano-seconds you will even find superimposed photos of Obama carved into the mountain next to Lincoln.

I agree, for once with my liberal friends, that an image of Obama must there next to Lincoln, i.e. the one I show. It totally represents the man who does all he can to undo what Lincoln did. Instead of emancipating the blacks of America he further subjugated them to poverty, and into vote-slaves. In this regard he is better than Lincoln because he doesn’t limit vote-slavery to the blacks, he includes all of us. Lincoln died to keep the states united, Obama lives to divide the country.

In my design, I place Obama next to, and above Lincoln because that is where he believes he is. I depict Obama as I see him. This likeness is one of the best I have drawn since he took office, and it most accurately depicts his character. I just hope the model does not get wind of what I have done. I don’t want him attempting suicide.

IMG

Why Grumpa Joe Will Never Be President

Warning!

This post has graphically visual images which may cause you discomfort.

Politically correct people should change channels immediately.

Do not read if you are squeamish, or a radical muslim sympathizer.

It became a total waste of my time, but I watched anyway. President Obama’s Press Secretary explained how the Navy reverently readied Bin Laden’s body and buried him at sea. I also read several headlines about Muslims unhappy about Bin Laden being buried at sea.

I do not recall any news of a Muslim complaint about how to bury a suicide bomber. Most likely those guys get scrapped off the pavement and walls with a shovel and tossed into a dumpster. No one ever complains. No one writes about a respectful burial for a martyr whose remains are proudly scattered about peaceful markets mixed with the bodies of innocent people who by coincidence are in the martyr’s place of worship. The innocents become collateral damage in a war dedicated to killing in the name of God.

If I were leading the country, I wouldn’t have allowed the navy to deposit Bin Laden’s body into the Arabian Sea in a solemn, ceremonial way. The burial procedure I have in mind would be slightly more public and complicated.

First I would ship Bin Laden’s body to Washington D.C. for a service, worthy of a ruthless criminal, on the Washington Mall. In full view of the White House, Capitol, the Washington, Jefferson, and Lincoln Memorials. I would invite the Imam’s of every Mosque in America to witness the debacle.

There, I  have  a meat grinder of the proportions used by a sausage manufacturer with at least a 100 horsepower motor spinning the blades at 1200 rpm. Six service people who lost limbs in the war on terror would carry Bin Laden’s pathetic dead ass to the hopper and dump him in head first.

Volunteers from families who have lost loved ones in the 9/11 attack or in the Iraq, Afghanistan wars would spread the Bin Laden burger around the grounds of the Mall.

Hidden from view I have several hundred hungry dogs. When the volunteers are safely out of harms way, I release the dogs for a meal of Bin Laden burger.

Finale 1. Once the dogs finish eating the Bin Laden burger we round them up and take them to defecate within the prison cells of Guantanamo.

Finale 2. Once the dogs finish eating the Bin Laden burger we round them up and take them to defecate in Pakistan.

Vote for your favorite. One star  for finale 1, or two stars for finale 2.

This is my proposal, and I’m proud of it.

Ya Gotta Love Wrinkles!

     Writer’s block is a bunch of crap. I haven’t written a thing in a week because of writer’s block. Like I said, that’s an excuse for laziness. All it takes is to sit in front of the computer and start. Today, I choose to write instead of going out for my healthy three mile walk. I’ll do that a little later. My mind seems to be sharper after a night of rest, and morning is when I write the most.

     Right now, I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my second cup of coffee. Every once in awhile I stare out the sliding glass door to watch the early morning golfers drive by in their carts. Our back yard borders the approach to the third hole at Pebble Brook Golf Course.  This morning the sky is pure blue, and the sun is so bright it is hard on the eyes. The quiet of the desert and the songs of the birds are broken only by an occasional squadron of F-15 jets roaring over head.  Yesterday, during my walk, there were large billowy white clouds scattered all across a deep blue background.  Later in the day, they collected and turned the sky gray. Last night it rained again. This place is like Camelot, It rains at night. A normal rain in the desert is like a drizzle at home. A person can walk in the rain for an hour and not get soaked, only damp.  The way I can tell that it rained is from the water dripping from the edge of the roof. It has taken all morning for the water to run down the pitch of the roof.

     The temperature this morning is fifty-nine degrees. By this afternoon it will warm up to sixty-five.  Yesterday, I talked with a friend who is staying with her son in Fountain Hills. She is ninety-five, and lives near us at home. She asked where we were located relative to her son, I told her just a few miles to the west. She asked, “Is it warmer where you are?” Temperature is relative, or should I say relative humidity is relative. Sixty-five degrees seems warm when it’s fifteen degrees and the wind is blowing over your face. Sixty-five feels cool when you are dressed in light clothes.

     Last Saturday, Peggy and I were at Mass at Our Lady of Lourdes church. We arrived early to secure a seat.  We prayed and meditated while waiting for mass to begin. The church filled quickly with a parade of old timers. All of them looked so much older than us. The servers had gray hair, the ushers needed canes, but the priest was young. We are staying in a fifty-five and over community, I thought.  Most of the homes were built in nineteen seventy-nine through the mid eighties. A retired couple of fifty five who purchased would now be eighty-six. No wonder everyone looks old.  The priest announced that it was a special day because he was honored to bless the marriage of a couple celebrating their sixtieth wedding anniversary.  Back home, in Frankfort, they would have received a standing ovation. Here it seemed like  . . . eh.  

     The attitude of the people here is to have fun.  They emphasize the positive. Wrinkled skin is normal. Everyone has wrinkled skin here. What is out of place is smooth skin, young people, and babies.  Infirmities requiring canes and walkers are just part of the age. They are looked upon as a way to extend the quality of life to the next level. I don’t think I could bring myself to live full time in a community of old people. I miss seeing the youngsters, and the babies around me. Here the parking lot is filled with Lincolns, Buick sedans, and golf-cars. SUV’s and vans, are for young people.

     It occurs to me that the seniors in this community are the pioneers of the “Green” movement, but they don’t get any credit for it.  They drive golf-cars around town on errands, to church, and on the golf course too.  They do it because it is cheaper, and more practical than driving a four thousand pound car around town. Besides, the Lincoln would probably get stuck in the rough, and make grooves in the fairway. Opening the trunk each time to select a club would be a pain in the ass too.

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