Drone Bomb Religion

The German city of Koln was bombed 261 times by the Allied air forces. The first thousand-bomber raid was struck against the Rhine city on 1942. The last attack was by a B-25 in March of 1945. The Allies swore that they were not targeting the ancient cathedral next to the railroad station, but the gothic structure was struck countless times by 250-pound bombs without joining the rubble of the devastated city.

In recent years the US Air Force has stated that their bombers can hit targets with pinpoint precision without adding that the blast radius of their bombs are 61-yards or two football fields. I hope that they can improve on this, when they subject the Baptist churches throughout the Bible Belt, although only on non-Sundays.

It is time to end William Miller's madness of apocalyptical vision.

Ban All Religions

Indiana Governor Pence signed at law allowing businesses to practice religious discrimination.

The case of a Bible-believing photographer refusing to shoot a gay wedding has coalesced the religious right into a frenzy about another attack on their beliefs, however any prejudicial refusal to offer services to anyone because of their sexuality is a hurtful reminder of White America's deep-rooted bias against non-whites.

Judging from his backers in this bill Pence has to be considered an enemy of freedom, however it's shocking that many black churches have fallen in line with their white Christian cohorts in condemning homosexuality as an abomination without considering that their savior was a single man hanging out with a dozen other men and Jesus lived with his mother until he was 30. Judea and Jerusalem didn't have Broadway shows during the reign of Augustus, so we will never know if the Messiah loved show tunes, but considering the enduring success of JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR, I would have to conjure that my man Yeshua was one of us and not one of them.

We shall survive.

God Might Not Be Dead

God might not be dead to the billions of brain-dead Christians and Muslims and Jews, but I really wish they would shut the fuck up.

Go Batman, teach Robin about atheism.

Drunk As A Russian

I like my drink.

I have drunk in many countries around the world.

But no one drinks like a Russian on a holiday yacht.

Check out this URL www.youtube.com/watch?v=sXi_7UJHXZA

Beer Versus Jesus

Top Ten Reasons That Beer Is Better Than Jesus:
a) No one will kill you for not drinking beer.
b) Beer doesn't tell you how to have sex.
c) They don't force beer on minors who cannot think for themselves.
d) Beer has never caused a major war.
e) When you have a beer you don't knock on people's doors trying to give it away.
f) Nobody has ever been burned at the stake, hanged or tortured over a beer.
g) You don't have to wait 2000 years for a second beer.
h) There are laws saying beer labels cannot lie to you.
I) You can prove you have a beer.
j) If you are devoted to beer then there are groups who can help you stop.

The Birth Of Puberty

This morning the temperature in New York finally rose above freezing.

This afternoon my longtime fiend AK phoned from Jupiter Beach.

"It'll be in the 80s later. We might go to the beach."

"Not a chance I'm swimming at the Rockaways till this summer." The ocean was never warm off New York.

"I called to tell you a funny story. My younger son came into my bedroom this morning and said he had two hairs near his penis. I informed Reese about puberty and explained that his body was going through changes and at the end of my talk he asked if he could start dating girls."

"What's wrong with that?"

"He's only thirteen."

"And what's wrong with that?"

Kids grow up so fast.

My youngest boy is six and that is way too young to date.

Sitting In The Korova Milk Bar

I loved CLOCKWORK ORANGE, Stanley Kubrick's 1971 homage to Anthony Burgess' violent vision of the future. After famed interior designer/sculptor Alan Jones refused to work on the film for free, the director hired set designer John Barry to replicate Alan Jones' naked female tables and chairs for the movie's Korova Milk Bar.

For years I had mistakenly thought that Alan Jones was responsible for the decor. I like JohN Barry's mimicking plagiarism, but I prefer Alan Jones' work, because nothing like the Milk Bar anywhere in this future.

To view the intro to CLOCKWORK ORANGE, please go to the following URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HI-mDTdeKR8

Assata For Freedom

Resistance is not futile.

Save The Library

Haoui Montauk was a poet. He lived a long life in the last century. The New York native regarded the New York public library as the epitome of intellectualism. Haoui was right, but in the era of greed-driven ignorance certain special interests have sought to change the format of the library's mission from knowledge to profit.

Tomorrow a seminar will be held at the Midtown Library to discuss the services offered by the Midtown Library.

The meeting will be from 6 to 8 pm in the Edna Barnes Salomon Room on the third floor of the Stephen A. Schwarzman Building. Enter at the Fifth Avenue entrance (at 41st Street, between the Lions). Refreshments will be served.

Knowledge is all, unless we want to end up like the Eloi of THE TIME MACHINE BY HG Wells.

All the books from the past ended up as dust and the Morlocks liked nothing better than roasted Eloi.

To those solely interested in profit, ignorance is an easier sell than knowledge.

Hurrah Punk Nightclub

Hurrah disco on West 62nd Street died after the opening of Studio 54. The owners experimented with a dance club featuring mainstream rock with video monitors hanging from the ceiling. When this scheme didn't work, the owners called on Jim Fouratt to animate the ex-dance studio and the impish impresario booked punk and new wave bands, then hired his friends to work the door and DJ booth since they were all into this music.

I was put out front as the doorman, my security was an old black boxer Jack Flood and a moonlighting cop named Bobbie Gardiner. Haoui Montauk and Aleph Ashline sat at the desk dispensing tickets and free passes to the VIPs, and upstairs George Wrage took the tickets, Carlos Rodriquez was the lightman, Sean Cassette spun reggae, punk, and new wave, Randy the bartender was so handsome and Jhourry his partner was so very wicked, Barney and the Odinesque Ron Jaggar paid our salaries every Saturday night. We all made good money, however the owners fought with Jim about paying the bands so much money.

It was the height of the cocaine era.

One night they told Jim that he had been terminated. "Because we're tired of you."

Jim was rightfully pissed at them.

The one-eyed manager ordered me to toss out Jim.

I asked him nice.

If I had been more honorable, I would have left with him, instead he told me to fuck myself and I was a hothead back then. Still am a little bit, but that night I escorted him out of the club.

I owe Jim Fouratt a big apology.

He was a true radical and visionary.

And not only with music.

But then this is about Hurrah and it was simply sex, drugs, and rock and roll.

To view the entrance of Hurrah circa 1981, please go to Merrill Aldighieri VDO

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5TrP7L62awM&feature=youtu.be

Hurrah Hot Foot

Back in the late 70s I was working at Hurrah as security. A good number of the punk disco's male clientele came from the bridge and tunnel suburbs of New Jersey and Long Island. The gay owner thought that they were cute and these tough boys were easy pickings for the pudgy Texan after these boys dropped a few 'ludes.

Once the poor things collapsed in a stupor, I ordered the bouncers to arrange the 714 'Lude zombies on the banquettes holding hands and linking arms like live sculptures. At the end of the night I woke the sleeping beauties with a hot foot i.e. sticking wooden matches into their sneakers and then light then.

Nikes burned fast, as anything made out of plastic and the boys' feet stamped the floor, as the flames worked their magic.

None of them got hurt and we had a good laugh.

Times were so simple back then.

Watch The Steps / Hurrah Nightclub

Throughout the late 1970s Hurrah was New York's premier punk/new wave dance hall with DJs filling in between the live bands such as the Damned, Buzzcocks, Dead Boys, Klaus Nomi along with Divine in the off-Broadway exploitative prison play WOMEN BEHIND BARS. Jim Fouratt hired me to work the front door. Haoui Montaug handled the guest list, while George Wrage collected tickets at the top of the stairs, since Hurrah was located in a second-story renovated dance studio. Getting up them was much easier than getting down, especially after drinking and drugging like it was 1978.

The stairs were dark and steep.

The deep-throated security man working with George was renown for his parting advice.

"Watch the stairs."

Most people succeeded in reaching the bottom of the steps, but not all.

On more than one occasion John Phillips warned customers and then a clatter of heels signaled the tumble of a body down the stairs. If they were lucky, the mezzanine landing stopped their descent. A few made it to the bottom. No one ever needed to go to the hospital, but New Yorkers were tougher in the 70s.

A lot tougher.

"Watch the steps."

Rock Bottom

"Failure is always easier to maintain than success."

And hard drinking in a dress says rock bottom to me.

Unless you like dresses, then it's fine.

The Old Man In The Mountain

The Old Man in the Mountain was first sighted by Europeans in 1805. The craggy profile had been carved by the glaciers of the last Ice Age and sculpted by the centuries of harsh weather crossing the White Mountains. Over the years millions of visitors have traveled up to Profile Lake to view the natural wonder popularized by Daniel Webster's words, "The Old Man was famous largely because of statesman Daniel Webster, a New Hampshire native, who once wrote: "Men hang out their signs indicative of their respective trades; shoe makers hang out a gigantic shoe; jewelers a monster watch, and the dentist hangs out a gold tooth; but up in the Mountains of New Hampshire, God Almighty has hung out a sign to show that there He makes men."

In May of 2003 the stone formation collapsed down Cannon Mountain.

The profile is merely a memory, but has been replaced by the silhouette of Eric Mitchell, star of stage and screen.

Kudos to the new Old Man of the Mountain.

May he grace the skies forever.

Twins Separated By A Century

This photo of Lewis Powell, a Lincoln assassination conspirator, was taken after his capture on the ironclad USS Saugus, while awaiting trial for his unsuccessful attack of the Secretary of State. The Alabaman doesn't look guilty in this shot, but he swung by the rope along with the members of John Boothe's murderous cabal.

My family of the Yankee side never resided in Alabama.

We were New Englanders to the core.

The Great State of Maine to be exact, however after seeing my Boston Hackney Cab license from the early 1970s my friend, David McSurley, said, "You look like Lewis Powell."

"I do."

"Yes, he was so hot. But you're not."

McSurley had nothing good to say about me.

"Not at 62."

The photo in the taxi license had been shot in 1972. I was twenty that year.

A year younger than Lewis Powell in 1865.

He never made it to twenty-two.

Better him than me.

My long-lost twin.

Party Girl Gone

She ain't here no more.

Only her ghost.

International Write-Off Day 2015

.

Julius Caesar returned from the conquest of Gaul and paid off the hoi polloi's debt. The rich were bribed with gold. Romans called this holiday a 'jubilee' and the common man extolled Caesar. They were no longer slaves to the upper classes, who hated Caesar for disrupting the ancient social order. Caesar thought that they were his friends, but the rich have not friends.

Still I love the idea of Jubilee.

What better than International Write-Off Day.

It's a simple idea.

No one owes anyone anything.

Imagine the freedom.

No debts.

No old worries.

Only the new.

Of course the rich will somehow come out ahead in the end, but for a few years we might be free.

International Write-Off Day

4/1/2015

Military Industrial Theft

Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies, in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and not clothed."

~Dwight D. Eisenhower

3Is And A Genie

An Israeli, an Iranian, and an Irishman are lost in the desert. They discover a brass lamp in the sand. The Israeli rubs it and frees a grateful genie, who will grant a wish to each of them. The Israeli insists on going first and demands a wall 100 feet high around all of Biblical Israel with no Muslims inside the wall.

The genji claps his hand and the deed is done.

"What about you?" the genie asked the Iranian, who says, "I want a wall 200 feet high around the lands of the Muslims with no infidels.

The genie claps his hands and the deed is done.

The genie turns to the Irishman, who asks, "Can you fill those walls with whiskey?"

The genie smiles and says, "Your wish is my command. Fainne oir ort!"

The Irish are a sensible people, although an old friend asked after hearing the joke, "Jameson or Bushmills? It matters."

Jamesons of course with its pure pot still taste.

"Slainte."

Treason Is Treason

According to family legend my Irish great grand-uncle was executed by the British crown for treason.

He was a Fenian traitor in the eyes of the His Majesty.

Erin Go Bragh.

Most recently in America the GOP's senators undermined ongoing negotiations with Iran at the behest of a foreign government by sending a letter to the Supreme ruler of that country, while the Secretary of State was conducting talks in Tehran. The nation should have been outraged by this diabolical manipulation of State Diplomacy, however the media is controlled by special interests and the vast majority of Americans have been brainwashed to regard any Muslim nation as an accomplice to 9/11, so a good percentage of the nation will view the Senators' crime as an act of conscience.

The GOP leader John Boehner also usurped presidential powers by inviting the Israeli leader Netanyahu to speak before Congress.

Sadly more skullduggery will follow, as the Presidential election draws closer to November 2016.

I don't expect anything to change, for no one can hear the truth until they stop listening to the lies.

No change unless Johnny Two_Guns comes to town.

Fenway's First Beer

back in 2011 my son Fenway and I were sitting with his mother at the Blue Moon Bar in Jomtien. Mam said that she wanted to check on the laundry. Fenway watched her across the soi. He gave me a smile and picked up my glass of icy Leo beer.

"Chim dai, Dhim mai dai," I warned him that he could taste the beer, but not drink it.

Fenway took a quick sip.

A bigger smile.

Footsteps on the concrete soi.

My son knew them well.

His mother was coming. I sipped from my Leo.

It was cold.

Mam looked at us.

We said nothing.

Like father.

7 Billion More or Less

The population of the planet in 1952 was approximately 2.635 billion people. I was born in May that year. I will be 63 in two months.

Several years ago UN announced that humanity has reached seven billion people faster than predicted by the most Malthusian experts on growth. The death rate of 150,000 people each day can not keep pace with the birth rate. 50 million short every year from the 1952 population means that over 3 billion people have died since my birth.

3,000,000,000 was a rough figure as was my estimate that 700,000,000 people out of 7,000,000,000 are 60 or over.

One-tenth of the world older than me and 90% younger.

That latter percentage includes my son Fenway and Fluke and my daughters Angie and Noy.

Forever young one way or the other.

ps I heard a population expert asked a question by a TV interviewer.

"What will be the population of the world in 2050?"

"One billion," the venerable scientist answered without a pause to think.

"One billion? The UN predicts 8 billion." The reporter checked his notes.

"They're wrong." The scientist was not impressed by the UN numbers. "One billion worldwide."

"And what will happened to the extra six billion people on the planet now?"

"They will be gone." The scientist laid out his thoughts about how nature will reduce the global population through floods and natural disasters due to environmental change. "And there is nothing we can do about it."

"That is a very dire forecast." The reporter was taken aback at such pessimism.

"No, because those years will be very exciting for the young. The old will not survive. Not them it will be hell, but for the young, it will be a new time of adventure."

In 2050 I will be 98.

I will be living in Thailand on the shores of the new ocean.

My rice factory will turn out the best beer on the planet.

My children will be happy. Their children too. And their children too.

It's all about location for the oldest man left on the planet.

Shotgun in my hands.

Drunkenfreude

Last year Susan Cheever entered the ranks of prohibitionism with her entry in the NY Times DRUNKENFREUDE. Her glib mangling of the classic German term 'schadenfreude' meaning taking joy in the misery of others opened with a 10 year-old tale of a woman's heavy drinking at a Christmas party then shifted into an observation that New Yorkers no longer got drunk at festive gatherings.

While heavy drinking was sometimes a sign of alcoholism, it was often an indication of heavy drinking leading to more heavy drinking in a time where nothing really matters.

Not your job, your life, and certainly not what any writer in a newspaper or blog have to opine about the issue of inebriation.

Several years ago at the retail basement of the Plaza Hotel I was running a jewelry store for Richie Boy. The place was a disaster. The Israeli managers played one CD of Modern Lounge Music.

From opening to closing like this space felt like a training ground for Shin Bet interrogators.

One night the two Turkish-Austrian managers of the exquisite patisserie Viennese Demels, and I were drinking Tyrolian wine in the store. My friend Richie Boy scolded my drinking, but only because he wanted something left for the other guests.

When they didn't show to our little gathering, we finished of the rest of the wine without giving any to Richie Boy.

My longtime friend was a complete buzzkill.

After quaffing the last glass I went to dinner upstairs at the Oak Room at the Plaza. I got home at 10:30 and fell into bed with GHOST TOTEM, a novel about Chinese dissidents trapped in Inner Mongolia during the Cultural Revolution. The book lasted about two pages before falling onto my face, but I awoke refreshed by a good nine hours sleep.

So am I an alcoholic or just a drinker?

I claim to be the latter, while recognizing the approach of the former at times.

At least my drinking hadn't interfered with my job as a diamantaire, mostly because there had been no sales that holiday season.

None.

So what me worry whether Susan Cheever doesn't think it's attractive to get drunk.

She's probably only attractive when I'm drunk.

I checked Google to make sure.

She was at least five drinks from being attractive, but then she was smart and intelligence always lasted longer than beauty and I guess that I shouldn't be so hard on her being a non-drinker, but let's face it the real reason she hasn't seen anyone drunk was that no one drinking liked a preacher.

So happy Beermas to all my friends.Let everyone else drink tea.

ps the beer in Fenway's stroller is empty.

To read DRUNKENFREUDE by Susan Cheever, please go to this URL

http://proof.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/12/15/drunkenfreude/

She is stone cold sober.

18-Foot Waves

In 2009 Hurricane Bill was aiming at the East Coast. Weatherologists predicted a massive tidal surge from the possible category 4 storm and warned of 15-18 foot waves along the coast. Surfers were ecstatic with this possibility of big-time swells, but I recalled the 'Perfect Storm' of October 1991, when the wind-driven tides pushed the sea up the East River to flood the FDR Drive. Commuters initially ignored the warning of the police and drove onto the inundated motorway with blind purpose of lemmings.

Scores of cars were washed away by the waves.

Thankfully no one drowned in the surge.

At the height of the tempest Rock Temerian and I went out to Lido Beach to surf. The ocean stretched to the horizon as acres and acres of unbridled hell. Houses floated past us in the surf. A monster wave thudded onto the sand with the weight of a million whales. We looked at each other and shook our heads.

A couple of other surfers gazed on fury and shook their heads.

We were all of the same mind and Rock said, "Looks like we're landlubbers."

"You got that right."

We returned to the station wagon for the drive back to the Easts Village.

It was safe there.

At least from the Perfect Storm.

THE EYE OF THE STORM by Peter Nolan Smith

In early September of 1960 Hurricane Donna struck New England as a category 2/3 storm. The radio station WBZ announced numerous school closing. My primary school on the South Shore, Our Lady of the Foothills, was one of the first on the list following Beaver Country Day School in Newton. My older brother and I were happy to stay home. We were new kids in town.

That morning a raging gale howled against our split-level ranch house and the windows vibrated in their sashes. The electricity died at noon and my father lit a kerosene lamp, which he placed on the kitchen table. Our family of seven huddled around the flame like Neanderthals sheltering in a cave.

Several hours later the howling hurricane abated to a whisper.

“Where are you going?” my mother demanded with hands on her hips, her voice ringing with the authority of a woman, who had carried five babies in her womb.

“Outside to show them the eye.” My father loved a good storm and waves crashing over the sea walls.

“Hurricanes are not a joke.” My mother had experienced the 1938 hurricane. That tempest didn’t have a name, yet hundreds of New Englanders had died in its path.

“I know.” My father shrugged in weak surrender to the truth.

"You act, as if you don't."

Hurricane Edna in 1954 had destroyed his sailboat on Watchic Pond. The hull lay in our backyard.

Six years later he had yet to repair the damage to the mast.

Five kids under the age of ten were a lot of work.

“The skies have cleared." My father looked up and then back to my mother. "We’ll only be a few minutes.”

“I wanna go too.” My two-year old brother bounced off his high chair.

"Not a chance." My mother grabbed his wrist. Padraic had almost died at birth from pneumonia. She wasn't giving Nature any second chances and sternly regarded by father. “Only a few minutes.”

"Maybe even less."

"Then go." My mother trusted my father to obey his promise, since he loved her enough to convert to Catholicism.

“I’ll keep them safe.” My father led us outside.

We lived in the shadow of Chickatawbut Hill.

A sultry wind raced through the trees. Branches were scattered across the yard. Overhead a counter-clockwise swirl of the cloud funnel opened to the blue heavens.

“That is the eye of the storm.”

The three of us 360ed on the lawn to gawk at the storm’s awesome power and glory. Lightning pulsed within the cloud wall like the Aurora Borealis. If my best friend hadn’t drowned a month ago, the cyclonic display would have reinforced my faith in the Almighty. Instead I said, “Wow.”

Rain dotted the walkway. They stunned our skin. The brief respite was coming to an end.

My mother yelled at us to get inside.

My father lifted his finger to indicate we wanted a few more seconds.

He had fought the Maine’s Great Fire of 1949. I never had seen him scared of anything other than my mother’s wrath. He quickly explained to my older brother and me how hurricanes formed in the tropics. We were 9 and 8. His meteorological lesson was lost on us and the oppressive pressure of the powerful storm weighed heavily on our skin.

“Remember this for the rest of your life. Few people see this.”

My mother’s next demand was an ultimatum.

“If you don’t come in, I’m locking the doors.” She was serious.

“We better do as she says.” My father guided us inside the house. He gave my mother a hug. She was relieved to have us back inside.

The second half of the hurricane stuck within minutes and lasted into the evening.

The weatherman on WBZ radio announced the all-clear message wagon, as we were going to sleep. School had been cancelled throughout New England. My father was excited as a child on Christmas Eve and he whispered, “Tomorrow Revere Beach.”

The beach there was ideal for watching the storm die against land. Giant waves would slap the concrete flood walls with a force strong enough to make the streets shudder with fear.

The boyish joy in his voice kept us awake for another three minutes, for tomorrow promised to be a day of big waves and wild sea spray.

We could hardly wait.

Slurpee Waves

The winter of 2014-2015 achieved record colds throughout New England. The accumulated snowfall in Boston towered over humans, shutting down highways and public transportation. Even worse were the incessant sub-zero temperatures freezing rivers and coating the ocean with a thick slush tapping at the coast.

At the end of February Jonathan Nimefroh photographed a series of frozen waves crashing to the shore in Nantucket.

According to boredpanda.com, Nimerfroh said that the high temperature that day had been only 19F, or -7C, cold enough for ice to form near the shore, but not cold enough to form solid pieces of ice, which is why the waves had to travel through a layer of slush to reach the shore.

No one was attempting to surf these 'Slurpee' waves.

The phenomenal swells vanished after a half-hour and the sea went flat.

To see more of these wonderful photos, please go to the following URL

http://client.jdnphotography.com/slurpeewaves/

It has been a cold winter indeed.

Space Vulcan

No one ever better.

Even singing.

Only two country songs were on CBGB's juke box.

One of them was RUBY DON'T TAKE YOUR LOVE TO TOWN.

By Kenny Rodgers, but I love the Spock version.

To hear RUBY by Leonard Nimoy, please go to this URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tk57tQmRw70

Dif Tor Heh Smusma

Leonard Nimoy came from Boston's West End shtel. His Russian father owned a barbershop in Mattapan Square. I had my haircut at the Terminal Barber Shop next to the terminus of the trolley line. I can't recall any other barber along Blue Hill Avenue. Tired of giving us a buzz-cut my father drove my older brother and me to the shop

A native of Maine he believed in high and tight.

His instructions to the barber were the same.

Once my old man left the establishment on River Street the barber asked, "How you want it?"

"Like Bob Dylan."

"Gotcha."

This was in 1963.

Bob Dylan had ended the 1950s with his hit BLOWIN' IN THE WIND.

The barber knew his clientele.

He never mentioned a son in the theater.

Leonard Nimoy never had a Boston accent.

In 1966 he starred in STAR TREK as the Vulcan science officer to James T Kirk.

His Vulcan gesture for 'live long and prosper' was based on how the kohanim or Jewish priests holding their hand when giving blessings.

Dif Tor Heh Smusma

Spock was our hero.

Logic over emotion.

When he died the other day, I broke into tears.

Like my mossaich had passed into the other world.

Trekkies loved Spock.

He transcended TV

Bibi Came To Congress

Yesterday the Israeli PM appeared before the joint houses of the US Congress at the invitation of GOP leader John Boehner. While hundreds of world leaders have spoken from the podium on congress, all had been invited by the sitting president. The media loved this spat between Obama, the Republicans, and Netanyahu, who is facing a close election in Israel. Critics attacked the right-wing Zionist for overstepping the boundaries of diplomacy, however Bibi Netanyahu was greeted by a long boisterous ovation from both sides of the aisle, as the GOP and Democrats displayed their support for the Zionist State. The Prime Minister waited for the ten-minute long applause to died out and then hectored the audience about how the upcoming anti-nuclear pact with Iran endangered the existence of Israel and its apartheid policies against the Palestinians.

In his speech Netanyahu referred to the Iranians as Persians and claimed the ancestors of Xerxes were a year away from producing a nuclear bomb.

Israel has been saying that for about twenty years.

The Israelis also were instrumental in feeding information about Saddam's WMD program to a gullible George W. Bush.

Centrifuges, yellow cake, a year from production of a nuke.

Same speech as always.

Fear.

Never again.

I agree with those two words in thought and deed.

But not one Palestinian worked in Dachau or Buchenwald.

I'm half-Irish.

The British stole our lands.

They stayed for 600 years.

The UK consider Ulster as part of the Empire.

No day it will be free.

Same as Palestine.

Same as the Jews, because we are all one in peace.

Here is the list of Senators brave enough to buck the Zionist agenda

SENATE

Sen. Al Franken (D-Minn.) Sen. Bernie Sanders (I-Vt.) Sen. Tim Kaine (D-Va.) Sen. Brian Schatz (D-Hawaii) Sen. Patrick Leahy (D-Vt.) Sen. Martin Heinrich (D-N.M.) Sen. Sheldon Whitehouse (D-R.I.) Sen. Elizabeth Warren (D-Mass.)

Hillary Clinton showed herself to be a sell-out.

Same as on the Iraq War vote.

New England - Be proud. \

Another Alien GOP Member

Florida's governor Rick Scott has recently called for the drug-testing of welfare recipients, forcing parents found with traces of marijuana, cocaine, or heroin off the dole. Scott said on CNN, "Studies show that people that are on welfare are higher users of drugs than people not on welfare and the bottom line is, if they're not using drugs, it's not an issue."

His statement was backed by government research dating back to 1999, however Utah's program of drug testing has caught 12 people out of 466 or 2.5% of those tested for drug use.

Florida conducted tests on over four-thousand people.

Number of drug-positive people were a little over a hundred.

Even less successful was the Arizona program nabbing one person after 87,000 tests.

Rick Scott has not been deterred by these debacles, expanding the program to interview all public employees, except for police and lawmakers, and the governor's company would be the one conducting the tests proving that there is no success like a government-funded failure.

Rick Scott has not volunteered for the test, but he has to be on something to look the way he looks and thinks the way he does.

ps fuck the GOP.

Holy Drag Racing

Drag racing was high-speed rebellion for children of the 50s.

A Vette was a monster.

eEven an Opel was Mean.

Blue Balls For The GOP

The GOP Chairman of the Senate Environment Committee, Sen. James Inhofe of Oklahoma, appeared before his peers with a snow ball from the streets on DC in his hand to promote his belief that Global Warming is a hoax by the liberal media to steal money from the hard-working rich driving this country toward the future of exclusivity.

“In case we had forgotten, because we keep hearing that 2014 has been the warmest year on record. I ask the chair, do you know what this is? It’s a snowball, just from outside here. It’s very, very cold out.”

The denialist Senator then underhanded the snow ball to the presiding officer.

Class, but Oklahoma has long been considered the buckle of the Bible Belt and his constituency are firm believer in the Almighty, who cheered their man for once stating, "God's still up there and the arrogance of people to think that we, human beings, would be able to change what He is doing in the climate is to me outrageous."

Outrageous?

How about this blasphemy for outrageous?

Creationists beware.

Dif-Tor Heh Smusma

The Masoretic version of the Bible purported that Methuselah achieved the epic age of 969. His name has become synonymous with longevity in the West. No one in modern history has touched his nonacentarian record, although my great-grand aunt Bert lived to 103.

She circled the world in a sailing ship. One port of call was Bangkok. Bert was the first of my family to visit the Siamese capitol, but not the last. Other relatives have reached ripe old ages. My father lived to 90. I expected to hit at least 110 if only because many more Americans are living longer, for wrinklies are becoming the largest growing segment of the population.

Why?

People don't die as much as they used to die.

Once past 30 few people want to live by the James Dean adage 'live fast and die young.

Even morticians don't want to hump fat kids and those ghouls will hump most everything dead.

With that macabre phenomena in mind I'm living as long as possible.

I don't want anyone touching my dead flesh until I'm way pass my prime.

Of course Vulcans like STAR TREK's Mr. Spock live to 300.

LIVE LONG AND PROSPER or Dif-tor heh smusma in Vulcan.