Preachin' at the preachers; does this never end?

The news reports that Jeremiah Wright’s life has been threatened. I despise this person, but I don’t want to see him dead. I want to see him out there preaching his brand of poison for Osama Bamalama, so named by his supporter Ted Kennedy when the bootlegger’s son couldn’t sober up enough to remember the Senator’s name.

The news today says Reverend Wright is being guarded by the “Men in Black”, i.e. heavily armed thugs from The Nation of Islam.

I have an intense dislike for this man, but I don’t want to see him assassinated. I don’t wish murder upon anyone, and I think this self-aggrandizing joker might be the savior of our country. He will prevent Osama Bamalama from being elected. I don’t have a problem with a black president; we might be overdue.

I have a problem with Barack Obama. I have problems with Democrats who want to raise my taxes and “talk” to evil people who want to kill us.

Stick a fork in Hillary; she’s done, and if she somehow hijacks the Democritter nomination, the civil war will spell the end of their party as a political entity.

I have no ill will for Reverend Wright. Au contraire, I want him to keep on keeping on. His affection for the spotlight will poison the Manchurian candidate’s chances. For a man with such a bitter, hateful outlook on life, he has arrived at an ironic position where he will save the country he despises by preventing The Manchurian Candidate from being elected by the force of his rhetoric.

Music: another recycled e-mail

A Constant Reader says country music was "made" for me. I answered privately, and the reply got overheated. Con permisos ustead, I am reprinting an edited version of my reply. I am lazy, and my friends kick me into high gear when I reply to them.Thanks, B---, you know who you are.

Subject: "Made" for me?

Not to disappoint or anything, but I hate country music. Not all of it, but the majority, and certainly the modern rock 'n roll that wears cowboy hats and tries to pass. Exceptions to the loathing would include Loretta Lynn, Tammy Wynette, Charlie Pride and the red-headed stranger his own self, Mr. Willie. The only post-modern "rocker" I cared for is the occasional song by Travis Tritt, mostly when my old schoolmate Eddie Grey played drums for him. Eddie got fired for developing a drug problem that affected his playing. C&W people are not quite as "pure" as the ethos would have you believe.

I can get my cranium going like a bobble-head by listening to people like Wagner, Mussogorsky, Aaron Copland and Rimsky-Korsakov. Have you ever heard Copland's "Hoedown" from his "Billy the Kid" opera by Emerson, Lake and Palmer, or an orchestra that was really going full-tilt boogie on it? Everyone knows Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyrie" from the chopper attack in "Apocalypse Now". A powerful rendition of "The Flying Dutchman" makes me want to get up and dance like a hippie.

I won't even get into swing jazz music. I used to be a graceful ballroom dancer, and at 6'3" with a 4'11" partner, we had some wild moves on such classics as "Flying Home", "Skyliner" and Count Basie's "One O'Clock Jump". We were better than anything in Spielberg's awful "1941" film dance sequences.

It says in my Blogger profile that I like Russian classical music for the passion, and that's straightforward. They have such a sad history, and their music composers knew it, caught it, and often said things through their works that would have been suppressed or outright punished during the Soviet regime. Western Europeans, like Bach and Beethoven, only imagined what Russian composers lived.

I know the roots of country music: Celtic and Irish folk songs especially. Linguists have determined that what the PC crowd scornfully refers to as a "Southern accent" is actually a variation on the Irish and Welsh speech that was brought to Appalachia by the pioneers in this region. Somebody sitting on their back porch, strumming the stringed instrument of their choice and singing wildly out-of-key, is much more entertaining and fulfilling than a stadium full of people cheering a country-rocker hiding his pattern baldness under a cowboy hat. A symphony orchestra going speed-metal pace on "Hoedown" or the aforementioned "Flying Dutchman Overture" is preferable to some bald-as-an-egg poseur singing about dogs, horses, pickup trucks, divorce, and regretting one's past. Most of them are being condescending; they are playing to an audience they might think they understand, but they have never attended that school of hard knocks, and they will never understand the dignity of people of who live the C&W life that they sing about.

I'm a guy with one foot in either world, so I might be qualified to speak of such things. A secretive "service-related" cripple, with long hair, strong conservative convictions, and a taste for fast cars, drugs, booze, firearms, and headbanger rock like Megadeth is certainly an enigma to my neighbors. The few who get closer are even more surprised to learn about my Master's in Political Science. Not to engage in hubris, but I am a man of many parts, or at least someone of many influences. Country music wasn't "made" for me, but I know the genuine people that country music was made for.

I love "Smoke That Cigarette". I think it originated with Kinky Friedman & The Texas Jewboys--the name of his band--before he later made his unsuccessful run for governor of Texas as a conservative. He now turns up on FOX News from time-to-time as a commentator, and is always insightful, although I suspect a lot of the PC crowd doesn't know what the hell he's talking about or referring to...kind of like Dennis Miller and Larry the Cable Guy. We seem to talk above their emotion-driven heads, because we have classical education and wider perspectives. Larry is a smart guy who gets written off by his general audience as a dumb redneck. He is, in fact, smarter and possessed of more insight than a lot of us college graduates.

Trust me, the used car salesman said; Try classical music; you'll like it.

BTW, Loretta Lynn's maiden name is Webb, and yes, some of those who followed Captain Duncan Webb, an Irish-Welsh volunteer of the British Army, settled in that region of America. Ours is the South Carolina faction, through my father's generation. He went west, and returned from FDR's Civilian Conservation Corps [CCC] to Georgia before a lovely maiden with the enigmatic name of "Retta" (No "L") enticed him into marriage. Lynn is my third cousin, and has graced family reunions with her presence when her schedule allows.

Because yours is the first e-mail I have answered since being in the throes of spring-fever- clean-up @ The Possum Den since my last mail, there is a lot of personal stuff in here.

I think, because I am so lazy about thinking, that I may have written my latest blog post at one fell swoop by editing this e-mail for content.

(Please don't be offended by this. Don Henley, the former Eagle, has a a great line in one of his songs that we "often get the best light from a burning bridge". Raised and educated on people like Blaise Paschal, Aristotle, and Ayn Rand, I find a lot of truth and profundity in certain rock 'n roll lyrics.)

Also mentioned in my Blogger profile is mention of a liking of an obscure musical artist named Roy Harper. He taught Jimmy Page of Led Zeppelin fame to play the guitar, but that isn't relevant. Roy's father was a minister for Jehovah's Witnesses, and his rebellious reply was a 13-minute song; an entire record album by old 70's record standards before the encoding of CDs. It was originally released as "The Lord's Prayer"; American record companies balked, and it was re-titled "The Game, Parts 1-5". It runs 13 minutes, 50 seconds, and is the musical equivalent to Atlas Shrugged as a book; one of the most powerful statements of my lifetime. Few Americans have heard of him, but if I want to get "country", I'd like for this obscure, bitter man to sit on my deck, have a pint of Guinness Stout, and simply talk to me about raising sheep in Australia. "The Game" can be found as an entire side of the re-released CD "HQ" by Roy Harper.

I may have been born for C&W, but it wasn't born for me. It may be part of God's curse on me, or it may be as down-to-earth as the answers to "Occam's Razor": the simplest answer is usually the best. I still proclaim myself to be Lynrd Skynrd's "Simple Man", my favorite rock anthem and Mary and mine's "song" for the romantic slow-dance waltz. I have a special relationship with music; it can make me feel, like the Russian classicists, or it can make me think, like certain rock 'n rollers from Jefferson Airplane to the aforementioned Roy Harper.

It is stipulated in what remains of my will, minus codicils, that the entire work "Dark Side of the Moon" by Pink Floyd be played as incidental music at my funeral/cremation.

Meanwhile, I' ll continue to "Smoke, Smoke That Cigarette", and given a nickle, I'd be out there driving my "Hot Rod Lincoln". (Another R&R classic.)

I'm so lazy, all this eloquent language may be edited and slapped up at UPI as an interim post. Blogs demand a certain amount of input and material, like those newspapers I freelanced for. I ain't always original. Comments can triggers replies, but sometimes not as you'd hope. I'm so tired of B.S. politics

Working for a living as a freeelancer, I learned that if your fevered, young, creative mind might occasionally hit upon a Zen frame of mind, you go with it. It goes back to that "best light from a burning bridge" thing.

The e-mail is threatening to lock up and purge before I can "Get 'er done", as my hero Larry the Cable Guy would say. Who was it who wrote that song that "I was Country Before Country Was Cool"?

I'll go easy on you, as always, if I reproduce your thoughts as a blog post. Truly edifying insights most often burn through as thoughts to my friends.

The lag on the e-mail and computer is significant. Before I go into ether-hell, I remain,

Confederately,

More movie reviews; yawn and take heart

I mentioned a movie the other day. In response to some commentary about Osama Bamalama talking about the “angry, bitter” viewpoint of small-town America, I put up a post at ScrappleFace—link at right—about a Willie Nelson movie.

As my Constant Readers know, I believe movies to be a reflection of our lives. I worked in the industry for a while, and more than that, I believe that the magic of cinema says something about our lives than we dare admit to ourselves.

To this end, there is a 1986 movie titled “Red-Headed Stranger”. It is one of two movies that I truly enjoyed C&W singer Willie Nelson in. He was good, if acerbic, in “Barbarosa” opposite Gary Busey. Otherwise, he reveals himself to be a nut case. He has that “deliberate demolition” theory of the fall of the WTC towers. About the only thing I can admire him for now, besides his exceptional and off-key songs, is that he’s a tax scofflaw. I despise the American income tax, too, but I don’t make millions of dollars a year. Otherwise, I’d file well over what I owe them, and collect the difference. I like staying below the radar; it is what Martha Stewart called “a good thing”. Few people know I exist today, and that suits me just fine. Riches and fame have their advantages, but anonymity and a quiet cremation or burial in Potter’s Field have their advantages.

This isn’t about moi. This is about what the future president of the United States had to say about his constituency the other day. I still have my doubts that John McCain can get elected, and I’m not even sure that as a conservative I’ll hold my nose and vote for him. If it comes to a pinch, I suppose so. I’m certainly not for voting for the party of losers and defeat, i.e. the Democrats. I’d sooner cut my foot off with Amy Carter’s chainsaw.

Going back to movies, in a fit of sanity, Willie Nelson made a movie in 1986. It is a poignant story of murder and redemption. Character actor R.G. Armstrong stole the movie, in my opinion. He thought he’d killed Julian [Nelson], the preacher, and wanted to die for it. I called his performance “searing”, and stand by it. He has a showdown in a saloon that is one of the most frightening and disturbing I’ve seen onscreen in 20 years.

This is basically a story of redemption. The Preacher [Nelson] killed his wife for infidelity. God knows [no pun intended] we husbands haven’t all felt that urge if the old lady was fooling around. Most of us don’t resort to murder; there is no sense that we marry only to have “disposable wives.” I have an intense dislike for my ex-wives; it doesn’t imply that I want to leave them dead in some landfill. We have this legal device called “divorce”, and if it means I have to give them a house, it’s still better for my soul than exacting revenge at the muzzle of a .44.

Nevertheless. It’s what Willie did. He hunted the old lady down and killed her. He took her horse, and never allowed anyone to ride it again. He took up the gun, and followed it to bitter ends.

This is where R.G. Armstrong comes in. Willie was his best friend. In his duties as a sheriff, he draws and shoots Willie on the spot, then kicks him into a lake. He goes for an undetermined amount of time convinced he has killed his best friend. He becomes an alcoholic maniac, daring people to shoot him. Nelson is understated, but Armstrong scares the bejabbers out of me. I think he stole the movie when he stared at a rube saying “I ain’t gonna take this anymore” and he says “Don’t you know who I am? I’m the man who’s going to kill you.”

This is ultimately about redemption. Armstrong gets it relatively simply; his best friend is alive, and sobers him up. Nelson finds a surrogate family, but must leave it to find redemption. A Willie Nelson Western is as simple as a country song, but I seem to find a lot of layers under the exterior.

This is a bittersweet story about redemption, which is an important part of my life. It is merciless in parts, as were the times. It also finds something as simple as plowing a field as an act of redemption greater than a man’s life.

Osama Bamalama would be well-served by taking a couple of hours and watching this movie. God and guns doesn’t have a thing to do with an economic condition. Movies are truly a reflection of how we live our lives. “Red-Headed Stranger” also reflects the best and the worst of what it means to carry a firearm. I won’t give spoilers, but if The Preacher [Julian] ever redeemed himself, he did it in the most painful way possible.

One of the best parts of the movie is that Willie does his own soundtrack. When he sings a portion of “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain”, I start leaking. I have blue eyes, and I have stood in the rain crying them out. I don’t like C&W, but that tears my heart out every time.

Gratitude

Every time I check out my SiteMeter, I am astounded. I have readers from all over the world! 92% of them are from the US of A, but the other 7% range from Saudi Arabia to The Netherlands to Australia.

I don’t even know what I’m raving about half the time, but I need to pause and once again thank my constant readers. Y’all keep me coming back, and give me the strength to step up to the Google™ monster when it needs challenging. I lose sight and hope in this free speech idea, but then I check the secret squirrel technology, and see that people all over the world are at least glancing at what I have to say.

Thank you for those sidelong glances. I’ll try not to disappoint.

Farewell to a legend

Charlton Heston died last Saturday. I saw my mother through the last vicious days of Alzheimer’s; I hope he was spared the ravages, and the end came quickly and quietly.

Ted Turner is a lunatic, but his TCM [Turner Classic Movies] can be counted upon to do the right thing. For me, the most surprising part of Robert Osborne’s “Private Screenings” interview with Heston was discovering that he stood 6’3”. Gee, I stand as tall. As an actor, Heston used his height to the same advantage as I did. Step inside someone’s “comfort zone”, and have them looking up at you, and you suddenly dominate the stage. I’m a scrawny little critter, and not an actor; Heston was athletically proportioned, and certainly an imposing presence. Nevertheless, the psychological advantage of height is undeniable.

Charlton Heston made movies that reduce me to tears no matter how many times I’ve seen them. “Ben Hur” comes immediately to mind. No matter how many times I’ve seen it, when his mother and sister come out of the leper’s cave, and they’re healed, I start leaking.

In his interview with Osborne, Heston talks about what a thrill it was to play real men who moved the world. El Cid, John the Baptist, Michelangelo, Charles “Chinese” Gordon—his self-professed favorite role in “Khartoum”.

We also have such underrated offerings as lonesome cowboy Will Penny, and the flawed, obsessed cavalry officer “Major Dundee”.

Upon his passing, Heston was immediately targeted for vicious comments online, at the Daily Kos and that Huffington bitch’s site. Heston stood for America. He stood for firearms rights, and was quite gracious to slimebag Michael Moore when the latter interviewed him as part of “Bowling for Columbine.” Heston was much more hospitable than I would have been; given the circumstances and the nature of Moore’s questions, bodies would have been rolling down Scorpion Hill with boot prints in their asses.

It should also be remembered by left-wing mooks that Heston marched with Dr. King, and stood for the best of what America stands for. The late, great Lewis Grizzard said it best: “All good men are dead, and I don’t feel too good myself.”

Goodbye, Mr. Heston. You will be missed, and never replaced.

From an e-mail

Good morning! I was congratulating my satellite service a while ago because you have to now marque dos para Espanol. They're starting to catch on. Press two for Spanish; we speak English here.

Larry the Cable Guy has to be the funniest man in America; he told the truth about being caught in traffic behind an immigration demonstration. "ICE is wondering where them fellers is? They's about 10,000 in front of my truck! Come get 'em! Get 'er done!"

I got a new home nurse this week; at 26 she's the age of my younger daughter Lindsey. She has a brother who's graduating Marine training, and will be deployed to Iraq in short order. I told her to tell him: when some mook says "I support the troops, but I don't support the war"...run! Get away from that person!

I had my war. It was enormously unpopular. We never lost in the field. Despite that, it was given away at a table in Paris. To betray the troopers by negating their war is to betray them, so where's the "support"?

By the time I finished my diatribe, she was in tears. I'll be praying for her brother.

I have never been happy with this "rebuild the infrastructure" business. The mission of the military is to kill people and break things. The Marshall Plan worked okay in Germany, and McArthur rebuilt Japan, but those were exceptions. We can't make a democracy out of a feudal, tribal anarchy.

We have the forces in place. Instead of withdrawing them, we need to reinforce and go kick Iran around. Iraq is a War I invention of the British. After we do the Iran smackdown, we should let the tribes reunite as they may. It may take a civil war, but the cards fall where they will. Iraq ceases to exist, and all the happy campers ride off into the desert on their camels. The Kurds get their liberation in the north, and the Shiites and Sunnis divide up the rest. Everyone is pacified. The kicked-ass Iranians flood across the border and embrace their brethren according to their religious flavor.

At that point, we pull up roots and get the hell out of there.

I'm no statesman, and way too ruthless. I haven't been labeled "a Nazi" for no good reason. I ain't running for anything, either. Things will continue to screw up, and I am retired, so my voice means nothing.

Truth be told, as Mr. Doom 'n Gloom, I am anxious to see what kind of disaster will occur when Osama Bamalama assumes the White House, and Pelosi and the gang of Do-nothings step up to the plate. Not to negate the loss of life, but there is a certain visceral thrill watching the WTC fall. That's just because I enjoy blowing things up; I cry every time I see footage of the towers falling. I'm getting old; I'm glad I won't see America fall to Islam.

Isn't change wonderful?

First, a bit of housekeeping.

Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated, as Samuel Clemens once proclaimed. I have good days and bad days in dealing with personal health problems. On the bad days, I don’t want to even hear mention of a computer. The evil ritual of chemo-therapy kicks in, and it includes nausea and headaches that are intensified by trying to look into a monitor screen. On the good days, what’s left of my mind is so alive with topics I think need to be addressed that nothing gets written because of simple sensory overload.

The F-22 Raptor is described as the last generation of human-piloted fighter aircraft. This remarkable airplane has onboard governors to restrict its performance in order to protect its valuable human cargo, i.e. the pilot. Similarly, there is a kind of ADD [Attention Deficit Disorder] that applies to those of us who use the Internet as more than a forum for cruising porn sites.

I am most grateful to the founders of Google™ for this blog, and their idealism that allows it. I recently learned more about the origins of Google™ on the Discovery Channel™. (I love typing in that ™ thingy, but I ain’t gonna do it no more hereabouts.)

At the same time, my gratitude is somewhat leery. Google hosts a plethora of enterprises. They started from nowhere, with nothing, as did Bill Gates and the Microsoft monster. Google is to be congratulated in the corporate world as a David who beat down Goliaths.

That having been said, I personally despise Google. One of their enterprises—Picasa—destroyed 27 files on my computer when I attempted to sign onto their photo-share site so I could use certain photo images on this blog. Instead, the Picasa program cherry-picked my files, and destroyed 27 files outright in what was described online as a “picture search”. The graphics went from my computer into Google’s online Hell, and were never seen again.

I attempt to supplement my modest disability income with contract, custom work that involves Adobe PhotoShop™. I work with a huge number of graphics files, and I will never forgive Picasa/Google for destroying my files. It has taken a year to rebuild them, and I am not finished yet.

Now Blogger is gearing up for something they’re calling "Google Beta™". I am praying they leave this blog alone. I had to jump through many hoops to recall this site as the original United Possums. I don’t know that I have the energy to fight them again.

Change in all things is inevitable. They say that this is especially applicable with computers, about every 18 months, so I’m about three years overdue for an upgrade. I can’t afford a new Dell; the old one works well, and I just want to keep typing. I use an older version of Microsoft Word to set these posts up; it’s the “can’t teach an old dog new tricks” mentality.

Google™ may or may not kill this modest blog. Besides cherry-picking my photo files with Picasa™, they are allied with Al “Hot Planet” Gore, so I don’t trust them.

Otherwise, as long as I retain my tiny share of bandwidth and my Constant Readers, we’ll soldier on.

Here is the other picture...

...of an extremely fast car.

I sometimes feel that I'm on a first name basis with every State Patrolman in Georgia. I certainly met enough of them when I drove this beast to Atlanta regularly.

I still don't know what I'd do with a million-dollar sports car, besides hard time. I had a friend in the 1970s who worked on those big-ticket Ferraris and Lamborginis. (Did I spell that right?) I can't even afford a used Porsche at today's oil prices. You have to adopt some German named Norbert at birth to keep a Porsche 911 running. I don't know where to find a cheap and easy Italian who'll keep one of those big-buck sports cars tuned. Besides, some idiot would hit me with a car door in a parking lot, and I'd have to thrash him to death with the tire tool.

Oh, did I say that already? Well, then, just enjoy this last sighting of true Detroit iron. Stingrays are dead; you won't see anything like this on the highway coming at you again.

I really do feel sorry for the youth of America who will never know the thrill of turning that key and hearing that V-8 fire off.

That's a Silver Anniversary Special Edition Corvette, kids. They made a limited number in 1978. I was lucky enough to have one for a few years.

For you fans of large V-8 engines...

I love a loud, noisy engine. There are few things as satisfying in life as an unleashed V-8. I had a '63 Chevy convertible with a 327 and a leaky roof.

I have a friend who sends me e-mails about million-dollar sports cars. They're fun to watch, but if I had one, I don't know what I'd do with it, besides serving life in prison. Some jerk would slam a door into the side, and I'd be obliged to beat him to death with the tire tool. This kind of behavior does not go over well, even in the land of gigantic carbon footprints.

When I grew up, so to speak, I bought a Corvette. This was an extremely fast car. Looking back, I can brag now that I once took a ticket for 120 in a 55 zone...and I was just cruising. Imagine if I'd had the hammer down on those 400 horses...

(The front tag, by the way, says "Welcome to Georgia. Now go home". I still have the tag on the front of my rusty old Chevy van that has to be jumped off by a neighbor every so often.)

I am classified by the State Patrol as a "habitual violator". I never went faster than conditions allowed, and never on a crowded highway. I saw a Corvette get hit by a dump truck in Houston. The thing came completely apart. The driver was killed. I never forgot the sight of that car spewing out across the intersection.

My ex-wife hated that car. She called it "The Batmobile" in a most derogatory tone. Nevertheless, she strapped it on one day and busted 100 on an open highway.

350 cubic inches of V-8. 400 horsepower. The monster sucked gas like a vampire. I have another picture of it, but the Google™ monster apparently only allows one photo at a time unless I'm Al Gore scamming for "global warming". Oh, well. There were few things better in life than turning the key, and hearing that beast roar to life behind me. I know we're in some kind of global energy crisis now, but I can tell you that a "hybrid" "green" car will never give you the rush that my Silver Anniversary Special Edition did. Stingrays are long gone. The new Corvettes look like every other Japanese import.

I feel sorry for every child in America who will never know the thrill of an unleashed V-8.

Before the blog dies...

Google™ is a nasty company with a bad reputation. Now they are threatening to destroy this blog with another bit of online treachery. I had my personal photo archives cherry-picked by a Google-operated bit of business called Picasa™, an enterprise owned and operated by Google™. I dumped the Picasa™ program as fast as I could hit the keys, but it wasn’t fast enough. A great many of my photos disappeared into the ether. So much for digital technology. I never forgave them for that offense.

Now, today, I see something about Al Gore on the news. He is apparently making a good deal of money off Google™ with his bogus “global warming” scam. At the same time, I see some technological tidbit about the new, improved “Google Beta”. I had to go to war, with a number of e-mail address changes, just to rectify my Google™ address. I am not looking forward to trying to save this blog again. This may be the last of Uncle Possum.

Before this blog disappears into the ether-world of “Beta Google™”, I want to tell an amusing and ironic story.

A long time ago, I knew a Jewish man we’ll call “Doc”. He was “radical Jewish”, he belonged to the JDL [Jewish Defense League] and he was a true believer. Never forget. My father was a War II veteran; he told me the horror of Nordhausen, the concentration camp he liberated. I agree with the Jewish belief: never forget.

So, Doc is hanging out during the Jimmy Carter era. Jimmy’s my homeboy, but I can’t recall such a sorry specimen.

Doc lived in Maryland. He steps out one night for a couple of beers. He goes to some roadhouse; it was a place to get a couple of beers.

Jimmy Carter happened to be on TV that night, delivering the State of the Union address. Doc sees Jimmy on TV.

Doc turns around to the guy next to him at the bar, and begins making derogatory comments. “You know what? I’ve got a hunting rifle in the trunk of my car, and I’m going to go down to DC and get that SOB”.

Just one problem. Doc was talking to an FBI agent, who had also stopped in for a couple of beers.

The agent searched Doc’s car, and he really did have a rifle in the trunk. Things did not go well for Doc after that.

There is no moral to this tale. Maybe don’t threaten the president, or don’t talk trash to the FBI. I always thought Doc was the unluckiest man in the world. He caught a world of hurt off the beef, and I never for one minute believed he meant it.

I talk a lot of trash about presidential candidates. I’m seeing the Manchurian candidate, name of Osama Bamalama, trying to run this country. Yeah, I’d like to shoot him. We don’t do that in America unless we’re depraved rednecks. I remember Dr. King.

Osama Bamalama is one of the most dangerous men in America. He makes the Hildebeast look positively benign beside him. I can talk a lot of trash about presidential candidates. Obama is the most dangerous man since FDR. Elliot Spitzer is gone, but I’m scared spitless. I am so scared for America.