BEING 50 PERCENT POLISH, I’M NOT SURE IF I constitute a minority. But, if I were, I twouldn’t be afraid of, well — wood paneling.
Liberalism has morphed into a strange concoction, formed of doses of extreme opposites. Liberalism is simultaneously bully and sissy, rage-filled while sobbing and sheepishly flashing the peace sign. It cries for freedom while offering blind allegiance to an inept Orwellian police state.
The Left is a cult. It’s our national religion. It worships unaccountable
CEMENT-HEADED LITTLE ME, I NEVER COULD SEE THE WORLD-WIDE INFATUATION WITH SOCCER. Eight dozen guys run around in the sun. Nineteen hours later, someone kicks a goal. One team falls to its collective knees crying and ripping their hair in Old Testament shame. The guy who kicked the goal runs around the stadium screaming with his arms in the air and then gets tackled by teammates who then proceed to wrestle him to the ground and — how do you say it in English? — prison date him doggie style until he weeps. Then, 900,000 drunken futbol fans burn down the city. In Burma, they still have elephant soccer. The balls are bigger — the soccer balls, I mean. I have to admit, it catches my attention watching several jockeys straddling pachyderms kicking about a ball the size of a Volkswagen. But only for a second. The sad truth? I’d rather watch Hillary search for her true feelings than soccer.
I TAKE PEN TO PAPER WITH THE FERVENT PRAYER that I am not too late. With your blessing and support, I am applying for the recent vacancy as Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Many unique qualifications have I to fill the position. Also, I can bring about both a peaceful transition from Mr. James Comey’s reign while helping to streamline and modernize the proud heritage of the nation’s second-most prestigious law enforcement agency.
Personally, and no offense, but I think the California Highway Patrol is the most august and admirable police force in America today. It’s not just the successful and clever melding of brown and beige into their uniform color scheme. It’s the lion tamer boots.
MANYYEARS AGO, I HAD AN INTERN NAMED DEEMER. She had a first name. Susan. But Deemer was so discombobulating hubba-hubba, everyone just whispered her last name in reverence. Deemer stayed at the newspaper only a few months for some dubious resume building, but she left an indelible mark. Deemer was one of those rare reporters who was so beautiful and so sexy the other girls in the office hated her. They’d watch her jungle woman walk with just the right amount of sinew and jiggle and their eyes would narrow in Christian judgment.
And Deemer knew she was a jungle woman. The subtlest smirk would crease the side of her predatory mouth as she didn’t walk but rather stalked across the office. It was like dragging a stick along the bars of the monkey cage. I had very little to do with Deemer because 1) I was in a relationship at the time and honored such things, and, 2) had I said anything to Deemer, it would have been an Alfalfa-esque and unmanly squeak of:
I’VE ALWAYS FELT A LITTLE MADNESS makes us interesting. A swashbuckling panache flowed through Jimi Hendrix, George Patton, Hercules and Marlon Brando.
But, there’s a line between bravado and insanity. To cross that line is self-destruction.
My dear mother Katherine spent a long lifetime trapped within a prison of schizophrenia, a disease that only grows worse with time. The psyche breaks down. The victim, and those around, suffer a non-stop roller coaster ride. At best, reality is a tenuous and debatable dimension. Police, paramedics, padded wagon drivers, dispassionate, well-muscled men from the state mental hospital and seemingly everyone save the Coast Guard carted my mother off at one time, kicking and screaming. Yet, my mother fiercely wrapped arms, legs, teeth, hands and feet around her universal delusion:
Along with Cervantes, Dante, Shakespeare, Kipling, perhaps me and a few rare writers, Victor Marie-Hugo is one of history’s literary giants. He was the creative genius who gave us the enduring “Les Miserables.” Oddly enough, Hugo originally did NOT write “The Hunchback of Notre Dame.” The book he penned was titled “Notre Dame de Paris” in the original French. It was re-named “Hunchback of Notre Dame” whenwas translated into many languages.
Nearly two centuries later, Victor Hugo’s work was renamed again.
A while back, Elli Mackenzie, a British producer, put on a knock-off of Vic's epic. She called her stage production: “The Bellringer of Notre Dame.”
Why? Because Ms. Mackenzie didn’t want to offend people with back problems.