Uh uh, Senator Barack [...] Obama (D-Ill) is having a 'senior moment'. The Independent Voters of Illinois-Independent Precinct Organization - rolls of the tongue, don't it, kinda like Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti - is a Democratic Party deep-space satellite that's so far out there it's orbit intersects with the Earth only once every four years. To celebrate these episodic transits IVI marks the cards of local pols to vet their ideological purity - partial-birth decapitation, gun control, anti-death penalty, pro-ERA, the UN is the best hope of the Earth, USA stands for Uncontrollable Sadists Amalgamated - the usual savory menu of Far Left delicacies designed to titillate the palates of anyone hoping for a career in Democratic Illinois politics. Remember this is where domestic terrorist Bill Ayres is revered as a local boy made good.
Obama was quids in with this group of committed Americans. According to IVI State Chairman, David K. Igasaki, “our chapter basically was his field operation. ... Those people [IVI cadrés] were already working for him, and it was important for him to identify with us". In 1996 Obama in answering the pressure groups questionnaire passed his ideological purity test with flying colors - none of them red, white and blue.
Support state legislation to “ban the manufacture, sale and possession of handguns"? Yes.
Death penalty? No.
Abortion up to and including birth? Yes.
Minors should be required at the very least to notify parents before an abortion? No.
The Senator, since it was revealed to him on a secret midnight ascent of Mount Rushmore that he is in fact our Messiah, has endeavored to nuance these bald yeas and nays. 'Nuance' is a French word meaning "to obfuscate or fudge an issue in order to conceal your real position for the purpose of enhancing your viability with an electorate far broader but, you hope, even dumber than the original coterie of Far Left dingbats you found so congenial when you could let it all hang out".
He has now discovered a penumbra in his personal constitution that favors 'counselling' by somebody or other if the girl wanting an abortion is a virtual child and in danger of 'abuse'. He now supports "common sense" gun control laws while also respecting the rights of "law- abiding gun owners" - as if anybody had urged him to champion the rights of felonious gunslingers.
He is now in favor of the death penalty for certain crimes - as opposed to the rest of us who want the death penalty for all crimes right down to running a red light - but, nuacedly, wants no executions to take place until, no doubt, the process can be made infallible.
How does he defend this timely migration from Nutt County, Illinois to what he hopes is Middletown, USA? He listened to focus groups? He grew half a brain? He fell out of his Porsche on the way to Damascus, Virginia with Mikki and the kids? No. No. And hell no. You see, he never, ever, ever held the views he told IVI he had. In fact he never told them anything, you know "those people...already working for him" who were "basically his field operation". He declared that staffers - ignorant serfs incapable of fathoming their master's bewildering array of sophisticated nuances - filled out the IVI questionnaires for him, answering 'yes' and 'no' without appending the lawyerly 'wherebys', 'neverthelesses' and 'hithertofores' necessary for serious political masquerading.
Now Politico.com has unearthed a copy of the questionnaire covered in annotations in the Senator's own hand! A "liar, liar, pants on fire" situation, you cry. Not a bit of it. Obama says that though he wrote on the document he didn't read it, approve of it or fill it in! When I heard this at first I was dumbfounded. Surely this cannot be. As the man himself says of the present gun control regulations, it flies in the face of, well, "common sense". Then it dawned on me. I fell off my porch, as it were, and saw the light. Obama had smoked the questionnaire, yes, but he hadn't inhaled! He didn't have consensual relations with that document, the..uh..IVI questionnaire.
Let joy be unconfined. All is explained. The First Non-Racial, Post-Racial, Inter-Racial President - for so it is written and so it will be - is the Living Reincarnation of the Most High, Most Revered One, The First Black President, Wily William the Winsome, who issuing forth from the Sacred South did scatter His Seed broadcast upon the hungry soil so that there did spring up a veritable White Water of Suicides, Chinese Donors, Blue Dresses, Travel-Office Firings, Jailings of Friends, Perjurings, Impeachments, Pardons for Gift Givers, Furniture Filching, yea, till throughout the land a vast Niagara of Public Treasure did cascade into the calculating coffers of all who did praise His Name.
In other words, Barack [...] Obama is not the first Democrat to put the hype back into hypocrisy but he is the latest.
And, for the moment, the most dangerous.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Uh uh, Senator Barack [...] Obama (D-Ill) is having a 'senior moment'. The Independent Voters of Illinois-Independent Precinct Organization - rolls of the tongue, don't it, kinda like Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti - is a Democratic Party deep-space satellite that's so far out there it's orbit intersects with the Earth only once every four years. To celebrate these episodic transits IVI marks the cards of local pols to vet their ideological purity - partial-birth decapitation, gun control, anti-death penalty, pro-ERA, the UN is the best hope of the Earth, USA stands for Uncontrollable Sadists Amalgamated - the usual savory menu of Far Left delicacies designed to titillate the palates of anyone hoping for a career in Democratic Illinois politics. Remember this is where domestic terrorist Bill Ayres is revered as a local boy made good.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
Like your ailing rich Aunt Mabel the Irish language has made a career out of dying while never mustering enough decency to actually cease to be spoken, a sine qua non, you would agree, of language death. This never-ending death-watch has inevitably drawn many well-meaning souls - I am numbered among them - to the cause of restoring such a beautiful and ancient tongue to its former glory - and glory indeed it was. Cuideachd Ghaedhilge Uladh (The Ulster Gaelic Society) was founded by Belfast Presbyterians in 1830, yes, 1830, to accomplish this purpose. Some 60 plus years later Conradh na Gaeilge (The Gaelic League) was established and what is called An Athbheochain (The Revival) was up and running. In 1922 the brand new nationalist Government declared the restoration of Irish a fundamental principal of what is now the Republic of Ireland, still the only free and independent Celtic state in the world.
A further eighty six years have flown by. The Last Post and Reveille have been bugled for the language many times over yet it lives on, tenaciously dying. Organizations, foundations, authorities, agencies, branches, committees and every other organ of social combination known to man have formed, flourished and dissolved or limped on well beyond their use-by date. Laws have been passed, amended, repealed and reinstated. Generations of rabid enthusiasts (me again!) and tepid sympathizers have budded, bloomed and withered. Seminars, conferences, colloquia and symposia, both sacred and profane, have gathered, discoursed and dispersed. Countless school children have puzzled over irregular verbs, memorized conditional tenses, guessed at the inflection of nouns and scattered initial mutations about with the profligacy of the terminally mystified. Vast quantities of public treasure and private energies have been expended.
To what avail? If endless talk, feverish endeavor and decades long government support worked, Irish would long have regained its place as the day-to-day speech of the people. This, it is now clear, will never happen.
And so as I viewed clips of Tavis Smiley's State of the Black Union held last February in New Orleans I was overtaken by a fatigue as dreary as it was familiar. Here was a huge hall packed with Gaeilgeoirí (Irish language enthusiasts) like myself only they had donned new skins and more vivacious personalities and instead of banging on eternally about Ceist na Teangan (the language question) they were yammering on incessantly about the Race Issue! On stage were the Great and the Good of the Movement - Dick Gregory, Cornell West, Julia Hare, Louis Farrakhan - all with their own particular analysis long since set in stone. They spoke with eloquence and passion and enunciated obvious truths. This was their life's work, the cause by which they measured the rising and setting of suns. They were fascinating, engaging and sometimes mordantly witty. And, like so many African-Americans, vivid with life. Anger, sorrow, laughter, rage, hatred, amusement, irritation and love kaleidoscoped throughout the hall.
Yet for all that the overall tone was shrill. The mood veered between an intense unfocused disaffection and a brooding desire for both personal and communal vindication. The platform party, seated in comfortable armchairs and totally at their ease, were by way of being Keepers of the Sacred Flame which burned not to commemorate the terrible sufferings of the past but rather to re-kindle the sense of outrage and commitment to racial identity which those sufferings naturally and justifiably gave birth to. The battles of long ago were still being fought by people desperate to believe that the building was surrounded by George Wallace and Strom Thurmond in their pomp at the head of a yowling multitude of bloodthirsty crackers complete with hown' dawgs, burning crosses and lengths of sturdy hemp. There was, in a word, something willful about it all. And aimless.
What could come of all this pontificating, air-punching and breast-beating? The general purpose seems to be to get everyone and anyone riled up. The rileder up, the better. The raising of hackles was the solemn duty of anyone within a bull’s bellow of the microphone. The name itself, The State of the Black Union, is as idiotic as it is pretentious. But even if we "suspend disbelief" and take it as a kind of accounting of how things stand with African Americans from one year to the next there is no profit and loss sheet presented as we would expect. The event is one long bellyache. To be black is to be beaten down from out the womb, woefully educated, chronically unemployed, personally persecuted, professionally thwarted, jailed out of pure spite, have cocaine thrust up your nose at every turn of the road and be forever left cabless in New York. Yet, strangely, every one in the audience is living testimony to the robust unreality of this Hieronymous Bosch scenario while a goodly moiety of the 'living legends' on stage are multi-millionaires wallowing in their racial misery all the way to the bank.
And the cause of all this wretchedness? Well they don't say it's 'Whitey' anymore. That's so Malcolm X. If a finger is directly pointed at a specific villain it is, it has to be 'George W. Bush'. I use quotes to distinguish this scheming racist tyrant - whose sole purpose is to impoverish every working stiff in America and return blacks, who are beyond impoverishment, to bondage - from the current resident of the White House who, by an unfortunate and confusing coincidence happens to have exactly the same name. In fact it is the only thing the two Dubyas have in common.
'George W.' cannot perform his vile herculean labors alone of course. He is enabled by 'the Big Corporations' which develop drugs to cure people of disease and produce and refine oil to enable the Gross National Product to burgeon and Mom to drive to the Mall to buy little Susie a doll for her birthday. This is just a cover of course for the real work of Corporate Executives viz. to impoverish every working stiff in America and return blacks, who are beyond impoverishment, to bondage. Oh yes and destroy the delicate ecological balance of the earth thereby wiping out the endangered Yellow Bearded Colorado Snow Snail as well as ending all human existence. They will then retire to a planet of pristine purity, heretofore cunningly concealed and utterly devoid of working stiffs and blacks, where they will live a life of sybaritic ease secula seculorum.
As you can imagine this whole business is as paternalistic as a Victorian papa lecturing his daughters on the evils of the female suffrage. Whatever topic the speakers expounded upon they each ended up sounding like a fanatical high school coach giving a locker room pep talk to a reluctant team of one-legged footballers who were selected to prove that if the coach inculcated in them a sufficiently inflamed sense of grievance about their misfortune they could go out and win the State Championship for Martyrdom High.
Between litanies of past injuries ranging from the slight to the atrocious and boilerplate attacks on 'The Man' it was obvious that even the revered icons on the stage had very divergent views on a whole array of issues that affect everyday life. The audience was equally diverse. Single mothers, old ladies on welfare, regular lunch-pail guys, stony faced fanatics rubbed shoulders with prosperous businesspersons who had never raised a shovel or a mop in anger and Ivy League types who could teach Obama a thing or two about elegance and sophistication. Their reactions to the rhetoric from on high also varied greatly. Some folk frequently shouted, applauded vigorously and long, rose to their feet in approbation while at the same time others shook their heads, frowned or sat resolutely with their arms folded. Yet there they were all willing themselves to feel the crack of Massa’s 19th century rawhide whip on their pampered 21st century flesh.
This stultifying boondoggle is needless and corrosive. It also achieves absolutely nothing. It will continue to do so. Not a single African American in genuine need will benefit. The historic wrongs have been righted. Needed legislation has long been passed. European Americans have acknowledged and denounced over and over again the injustice of slavery which even in its hey-day many of their ancestors deplored and fought to eradicate and from which many did not benefit in any way. Since the Sixties white racism has been ruthlessly suppressed by force of law and the highest moral sanctions of society.
All organs of government at every level as well as private agencies, businesses, universities, corporations, foundations, clubs, neighborhoods, families and individuals have comprehensively mandated, supported, encouraged, funded and put into practice every conceivable program, scheme, plan, proposition, proposal and design that the human mind and heart can draft, dream up, envisage, imagine, cobble together, divine and structure in order to make good on the past and provide an opportunity for all persons of color to make a real go of their lives.
Social engineering on a vast and hitherto unthinkable scale in a free democratic society has been undertaken to bring this about. Grossly unfair racial quotas have been both mandated and self-imposed in every viable arena both public and private. Forcible busing of school children has been ordained from on high, a tactic worthy of the “great engineer of souls” himself, Joseph Stalin. Draconian speech codes have become the order of the day. A Political Correctness mania, in effect socially monitored self-censorship, has fundamentally curtailed the freedom of speech and action of all but the congenitally contrarian. Self-selected and officially appointed grievance invigilators have made life a misery in myriad petty ways for countless millions of hardworking, decent, law-abiding white men and women of good will.
As the genuine grounds for complaint have given way to a level playing field and transparent regulations and then to a stacked deck and loaded dice a great horde of hucksters, charlatans, confidence tricksters, scam merchants, cynical opportunists and run of the mill chancers – not to mention the unlovely brood of grievance industry lawyers - have been conjured into existence to keep the good times rolling. And all this time veritable Grand Canyons of money – which as we know doesn’t grow on trees but is created by the sweat of brow and brain - was first invested, then merely expended and eventually and for many years plain squandered originally in pursuit of a noble dream but now just because to turn the gushing spigot back a bare notch would require the combined political courage and moral rectitude – not to mention the personal guts - of all the Founding Fathers on their best day.
Take a look at our present supply of political leaders, Left, Right and all points between. Neither severally nor in the aggregate could they muster as much honor and courage as still reside untapped in George Washington’s wooden dentures.
Yet turn that spigot we must and not just because of the rampant corruption of the process nor for the very sound reason that it isn’t delivering on the bright early hopes we all shared. This approach has re-indentured entire socio-economic echelons of the black population. The projects are the new plantations, fatherless households the new Uncle Tom’s cabins, the swarms of social workers, public defenders and judges the new overseers, gatherings such as Travis Smiley’s the new auction blocks and all – I mean all - Democratic party grandees of every shade and hue the new Massas.
Thinkers, commentators, even bloggers can be the new John Browns but this Second Emancipation needs a Second Lincoln, one who like the original will free those in bondage not simply for their sake alone but for the sake of this great Union so that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall once again thrive in what is still the freest nation on this earth.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
As the Democrats' labyrinthine nomination process becomes more convoluted, more obnoxious and more drastic the two remaining candidates increasing blunder about wildly wielding any instrument, sharp or blunt, that comes to hand like two blind gladiators hacking more in desperation than hope at each other in the blood-soaked sand of Rome's old Colosseum. A sight that would have gladdened the heart of the Emperor Gaius, a psychopath known to history as Caligula, who, appropriately enough, appointed his horse a member of the august Roman Senate. And all this time there we were fondly thinking John Kerry was the first.
After an initial burst of euphoria at the "uniqueness" and "vigor" of the contest, Planet Pundit has for long prognosticated gloomily on the dire consequences for the Dems of their internal strife as it degraded inexorably into the kind of tit for tat bloodletting more akin to the robust methods favored traditionally by Sicilians to compose their differences. Uniquely in this campaign year the pundits have proved to be correct. The subterranean rumbling you hear in the night is not an earthquake in the making, it is instead the sound of the Democratic Party splitting apart.
The immortal phrase "chickens coming home to roost" springs to mind because the Dems have labored mightily and long to bring this dies nefas about. It is conventional wisdom to view the two major American political combinations as 'Big Tent' coalitions. This is true in respect of the Republican Party as we see the various shades of opinion in the party gradually coalesce around John McCain despite obvious disagreements on issues, priorities and emphases. This is what a coalition, properly so called, does. Though allowing for sometimes considerable differences within its elements there is a strong elastic bond of principle and sensibility which keeps any divergent forces within the bounds of what is viable. The GOP is therefore essentially coherent and centripetal in its tendencies.
The Democratic dynamic is entirely different. Since 1968 the Party has devolved from the old FDR coalition into an agglomeration of client blocs which compete each with the other for a greater and greater share of the largesse, political, legislative and monetary, which the Party has in its gift. This might seem a version of old Tammany Hall patronage but, unlike that system which encouraged loyalty to a hierarchy of Party chieftains based on self-interest, this model promotes dissension, division and distrust because each of these blocs is a self-selecting separate entity which of its nature demands total loyalty to and complete identification with the specific group rather than the Party, which ceases to exist except as a formal assets-delivery system.
Thus the array of special interest and single-issue voting blocs - African-Americans, Latinos, feminists, gays, welfare dependents, illegal immigrant advocates, unions, special pleaders, far left activists, avowed libertines and so forth - see themselves as uniquely special and therefore uniquely entitled to special consideration. This creates an auction without an auctioneer where individual Democratic politicians are forced to make any number of contradictory and increasingly outrageous bids to secure the support of the competing blocs. In this way the Democratic political currency becomes grossly devalued by a galloping inflation of promises, positions and runaway posturing. This devaluation renders Democratic assets virtually worthless to every one other than the successful bidders. So it is that 22% of both Obama and Clinton supporters want the other candidate to quit already, while 19% and 28% respectively say they will switch to the GOP if their particular patron loses out.
This is also reflected in the iron-clad compartmentalization of the vote, the real reason why Clinton cannot take advantage of what would otherwise be Obama's lethal relationship with his pastor. The blocs that instinctively abominate the reverend - white women, white working class men, Latinos - are voting for her already. Those who support Obama - blacks, college educated whites, the MSM - look upon anti-Americanism as a legitimate position if not indeed an undiluted virtue. Like the great George Jones Hillary may be hailed as a one of the best ever by her own but she has no cross-over appeal.
Thus two great aggregations of special interest blocs, having split the Democratic primary votes down the middle, face each other across a Gettysburg strewn with the dead (Gravel, Kucinich, Dodd, Biden, Edwards, Michigan and Florida primary voters, party unity), the dying (Bill's legacy, Obama's Messiahship, Hillary's 'experience', Rev Wright's reputation), the maimed (Geraldine 'Gerald' Ferraro, Samantha 'Monster' Power, Patti 'The Incompetent' Solis Doyle, Andrew 'Shuck 'n Jive' Cuomo, Austan 'Wink and Nudge' Goolsbee) and the walking wounded (the Heavy Brigade of Superdelegates in its entirety, Democratic leaning independents, pundits whose income depends on their unerring insights, anyone who faints at the sight of blood).
War is hell, but Civil War is manna from Heaven to your enemies and the Republicans have gone from looking down the double barrels of a Democratic blow-out to viewing through their field glasses the brightening prospects of another four year occupation of the White House.
This was always a mess waiting for a Persian rug in order to happen. The stars merely needed to fatefully align. And so they did. Along came two paramount icons who in and of themselves represented hugely inflated competing Entitlements, the denial of either of which would be an act of intrinsic evil. The Democratic Party now quails "before the devil it raised and cannot lay". It gave birth to Entitlement, nursed it, cradled it lovingly, sent it to kindergarten, high school, college, the workplace, the projects, insisted on enrolling it in every and all organizations, public and private, in the land. In the end like a spoilt child grown strong it batters its parent and sets about burning its home down.
Now, Richard Dawkins, tell me there isn't a God.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Just when Democrats were thinking it was safe to come out of their carbon neutral dens to pander some more to their array of special interest voting blocs, Hillary happens. Again. The junior (how that designation must grate!) Senator from New York, named after Sir Edmund Hillary, life-long Yankee fan, whose jogging daughter barely escaped annihilation on 9/11, and who herself was central to the Irish Peace Process, reminisced on St. Patrick's Day about her brush with death in war-torn Bosnia.
It is 1996. HRC has been Co-President four years. The Bosnian civil war is winding down. A White House presence is deemed appropriate. The situation however is still too dodgy to send in the First Draft Dodger himself. What more seemly compromise than a visit by his wife and daughter to the war zone? Hey, this is an Administration where a good ol' boy from Arkansas can before our eyes morph into the First Black President. Anything goes.
Tuzla - where Hillary and the fruit of her womb land - is a battlefield which would make even grizzled veterans of Omaha Beach blanch. The official reception has of course been canceled. The welcoming party cower in their reinforced concrete bunkers hardly daring to peer out as the plane and its precious cargo weave their way through rocket and anti-aircraft flak before juddering to a halt on the ramshackle runway that is dotted with bomb craters and littered with the body parts of what were just moments ago cheering, expectant crowds.
The growling engines whine to a stop. An eerie silence descends, broken only by crackle of machine guns, the screaming of bullets and the nerve-wracking thud of relentless mortar fire. Nothing moves except Death, his bloody scythe flailing amid the acrid smoke. Suddenly the plane door opens and there stands the First Lady, bareheaded and wearing only a military style gaberdine coat, black trousers and polo neck. An aide appears briefly behind her, holding some body armor. She ignores him. High velocity bullets pepper the fuselage. The aide flings himself on the floor whimpering. Hillary just stands there, obviously enjoying the fresh air after being cooped up so long in the stuffy cabin.
She glances back at her daughter. "C'mon, let's go, Darlin'" she mutters, "can't keep these good Muslim folks waiting." Just as they step onto the ground a mortar explodes so close by they can smell the burnt flesh of a Labrador retriever, the base mascot, renamed Buddy especially for the occasion.
"Gosh, Mom," cries Chelsea, "I'm glad we didn't bring Socks along."
"So am I, Darlin'," replies her mother grimly, "but you know Daddy gets awful lonely when I'm not at home and needs to have a little pussy around to console him."
At that they both stride, heads held high, towards the crowded bunker. The rest of the party deplane and stumble after them, hunkered down, crying imprecations to the Almighty as the deadly fire rains down all round them. One by one shamefaced soldiers emerge from cover, their battle honors glittering sheepishly on their breasts. As they gather round the tall erect figure of Hillary Rodham Clinton, the enemy guns fall sullenly silent.
On the Serb infested hills all about white flags begin to flutter, first one, then ten, twenty, fifty until eventually it seems like winter in Vermont. An awestruck major scratches his head and says in wonder, "My God, this is incredible. Just incredible." The First Lady rounds on him savagely, "Incredible, you say. No, it's completely believable. It's real, totally real, I tell you. I was there for God's sake. I know what happened."
Hillary jerked herself up in her narrow uncomfortable bed and looked into the kindly bearded face of Dr. Guzzuntite. "It happened", she cried piteously, "it really happened". She burst into uncontrollable sobs. The doctor smiled sadly. "There, there," he said soothingly, "you've just had one of those nasty dreams again. Here, take ten of these little yellow pills and three of the lovely blue round ones, your favorites, remember, and everything will be just fine."
After gulping down the tablets between sobs she gazed up at the doctor. "Why are the walls so soft in here, doctor, and why am I kept in this contraption," she asked, nodding at a device which was wrapped around her body and fastened at the back with sturdy buckles. "It's for you own safety, Mrs. Clinton," he replied patiently. "Remember that time in the Day Room when you gave that speech, you injured yourself quite badly ramming your fist through the television screen and frightened all the others."
"But that was my First Inaugural Address, Doctor, don't you see, and they wouldn't listen. They just kept looking at that damn 'American Idol' on Fox, Goddamn it, Fox!" As he wiped some drool from her chin, Hillary, growing drowsy now, murmured, "and how can I answer the red telephone with my hands all tied up like...listen, I can hear it. It's ringing, ringing, ring..."
As he shut and bolted the reinforced steel door behind him, Doctor Guzzuntite turned to a tall, dapper gray-haired man beside him. "Incurable, Mr. President, I'm afraid," he said, sorrowfully shaking his head. "She gone way over the line this time and she's not coming back."
The elegant man flipped open his cell phone and pressed the speed dial.
"Calling in another psychiatrist won't help," said the bearded medic, bridling somewhat. "The case is quite hopeless."
"Psychiatrist hell," growled the man, his face growing red with excitement. "Hello," he bellowed hoarsely into the phone. "Yeah, it's me. How're y'all. Been a while, I know. Hey, honey lips, you know that box of cubans you told me way back you were savin' for a special occasion..."
Monday, March 24, 2008
Hugh Leonard Thompson Murphy, known to history as Lennie, was born in The Village in East Belfast in 1952, a fanatically loyalist Protestant area of a lovely and - insane though it sounds - a truly friendly city which could be such a wonderful place but for the vicious anti-Catholic sectarianism with which it has become synonymous. The Village was known for its particularly virulent hatred of all things Irish and hence, the thinking went, Catholic. Now little Lennie was stuck with that quintessential emblem of Paddydom, his very name. Murphy ( from the Gaelic Ó Murchú) is as Irish as "Danny Boy" and as Catholic as the Rosary.
In the lunatic environment in which he grew up there were widespread suspicions - and suspicions in Belfast, like unexploded bombs, tend to tick away if not swiftly disarmed - that his father William, a mild inoffensive fellow, was a 'Teague' (= Catholic, from the Irish name Tadhg =Thaddeus, Timothy). Hence Lennie, carrier of tainted blood, was called "Murphy the Mick" (Mick = Teague) by mates with comfortably Anglo-Scottish names like Foster, Stewart, Ponsonby, Briggs and the like.
Lennie, the emotional type, as will become clear, reacted by becoming Proddier than the Proddiest of the Prods (Prods aka Sammies = members of any branch of the Reformed Faith). What they call a Superprod. His obsessive hatred of Papists galvanized an essentially psychopathic nature and by the age of twenty he was slaughtering innocent Catholics at the head of a bunch of thuggish misfits who over the bloody years came to be known as the Shankill Butchers. That evocative soubriquet says it all. Lennie died in 1986 in a hail of IRA bullets, having been betrayed to the enemy by fellow Loyalist gangsters who had come to fear him as much as everyone else on the planet.
Jeremiah Wright and Barack Obama come to mind though not because they are psychopathic killers, let me add. They are perfectly sane and not in the least criminal or violent. They are in fact pillars of their community. But they have something in common with the unlovely Lennie - a need to prove to themselves and the world that they are totally committed to their assigned identities. In an historically divided social environment such as Belfast fencing sitting was not a recognized way of achieving prestige in one's community or establishing the basis for a political career. Life in general, especially as regards politics and religion, was a zero sum game. You were expected to fight fiercely for your own crowd or else "the other shower of b*****ds" would carry off the prizes. Unimpeachable political-religious tribal credentials were necessary because absolute loyalty to and identification with the tribe was the be all and end all. It was the ultimate moral duty which transcended and therefore destroyed all morality.
Wright and subsequently Obama were faced with a similar strategic dilemma though for different reasons. Obama's difficulty is obvious. He wasn't black enough. He spoke and comported himself like Jimmy Stewart in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. Born in Hawaii, living in Indonesia, raised in Kansas, with a Harvard Law Degree he was the epitome of an Ivy League thoroughbred yet he had ambitions to lead the herds of wild mustangs that roamed the South Side of Chicago.
All of this, not unnaturally, inspired many misgivings among the canny local Democratic potentates of color in the Windy City. To top everything off their suspicions of this tenderfoot interloper were grounded in irrefutable biological reality. He was half-white. Even his black half came unladen with the politically advantageous baggage of a slave past. His father was a member of the Luo*, a free people who share power the African Republic of Kenya and whose only involvement with slavery had been selling off their Maasai and Samburu enemies to Arab traders, a practice ended by the British. Obama possessed credentials identifying him with not one but two tribes, white American and black African, a unique selling point nationally but distinctly unhelpful in the more claustrophobic black districts where he chose to establish himself.
Jeremiah Wright, a generation before Obama, had a similar but more subtle problem that might not occur to whites who see all people of African descent as just black. Black people themselves of course are naturally more discerning. Where whites see an undifferentiated color they see a range of complexions (as indeed whites do with respect of members of their own race). This is quite normal and inconsequential except of course in the cauldron of race-obsessed America. As anyone can attest who has seen him in his pulpit against the congregation massed behind him Pastor Wright is extremely light-skinned even to the extent that one can easily discern him actually flushing with passion at the more emotionally charged moments of his sermons, a phenomenon not to be observed with the vast majority of black preachers however riled up they get.
This might seem trivial but in the American context it can have significant psychological effects. (This whole question is explored with great subtlety by Philip Roth in The Human Stain, a true American masterpiece.) The 1960s - the seed-time of so many of today's more florid neuroses - was a period when emerging black activists, understandably enough, over-compensated for the shame historically associated with their race by proclaiming an overweening pride in their blackness or rather Blackness. "Black", they declared, "is beautiful", as indeed in so many ways it is because a socially and morally coherent black community is one of the glories of American civilization.
This radical attitude was a necessary corrective to the marginalization by law and by racial stigmatization which blacks had endured for centuries. However this was the Sixties, so in about 3.2547 seconds everyone involved went OTT and healthy radicalism transmogrified into a rabid fanaticism at the core of which throbbed a racism which was the mirror-image of that which it sought to eradicate.
Within this heady scene young Jeremiah Wright, a middle-class graduate of a white Philadelphia high school, was coming into his own. It is not to be wondered at if he felt a psychological imperative to more than emphatically establish his ethnic authenticity in the face - no pun intended - of the paleness of his own complexion when all the cadres of the cause were sporting chic afros the size of the Super Dome and wearing as a badge of honor the very blackness of which he barely possessed enough to bring a scowl to Bull Connor's unpleasing countenance.
He thus became a Super Black, the ranting, rabble-rousing Moses of an Unchosen People for whom no anti-American (because ipso facto anti-white) delusions, however demonstrably paranoid, were off limits.
So, each riding his own distinct yet not very different demons, the pale black Preacher and the half-white black Politician came together and added their own chapter to the Great Adventure that is America.
And for that at least, my friends, we should be grateful.
*I originally identified Obama Sr. as Kikuyu. Many thanks to 'turkey' (see comments) for setting me right.
Friday, March 21, 2008
"My grandmother is a typical white person, or as Michelle likes to say a complete TWerP, who if she sees someone on the street she doesn't know, you know, someone of color or who's come back from a vacation in the Florida Keys with a really deep tan, she scuttles to the other side of the street. It's quite instinctive, kind of bred into their bones. Apart from the implications this behavior pattern has for race in our country it also leads to quite a high rate both of jay walking convictions among that demographic as well of course as quite severe physical trauma consequent upon TWerPs suddenly inserting themselves into the traffic flow without any warning whatsoever. This is greatly exacerbated by the fact that these folk have got absolutely no sense of rhythm and cannot shuck and jive their way across the road in such a way as to minimize the chance of a collision"
In this way Senator Barack [...] Obama, (D-Ill), launched his new campaign to heal America's suppurating racial wounds. Speaking in San Francisco to the Bay Area chapter of the Perpetual White Cringe Foundation (PWCF) the Illinois senator declared that this campaign will be run "in parallel yet completely separately" from his Presidential bid. "It will be called", he told a packed hall of shamefaced self-flagellating awestruck Caucasians, "the Throw Your White Grandmother Under The Bus Tour."
He plans to address monster rallies of guilt-stricken melanin-challenged Americans, who haven't enough gumption to find a tree in a forest, in at least forty states between now and the Democratic Convention in Denver where to the tune of "Camptown Races" played backwards he will accept his Party's nomination upon a podium overlooking "a celebratory, cleansing bonfire" of Stephen Foster music scores, Confederate memorabilia, effigies of Al Jolson in blackface, the Collected Writings of Thomas Sowell, Shelby Steele, Bill Cosby and such, together with any and all artifacts "likely to promote ethnic and racial stereotyping".
Claude McCrumble, president of the PWCF, introduced Obama, saying that since he had come to see himself for what he really was - a TWerP - he felt truly liberated. "All my life I tried to be colorblind, engage with people on the basis of the content of their character not the color of their skin but I now realize that this is impossible for me. I'm a TWerP and I must embrace my TWerPhood before I can, under the guidance of Senator Obama and Pastor Wright, transcend it. "
In his usual spell-binding manner Senator Obama called for openness and honesty from all sides. " I inherited from my white mother and white grandmother, no don't boo, she like you all here, is but a Typical White Person, I inherited from them, I say, the ineradicable stain of slavery. Except for the happy accident of my mother's weakness for black men which even my grandmother could not control, I too would be condemned to spend all my life from kindergarten onwards apologizing for my existence. I too would have to weigh every syllable, every glance, every sigh, sob or shout of joy before expressing them for fear of letting the mask slip to reveal the howling race hater within. I too would have had to endure daily hectoring and derision from the Main Stream Media to help me deal with my white supremacist rage when my son couldn't get into a decent college because of affirmative action or my daughter became a drop out at sixteen because of the sky high crime rate in the public school she was bused to.
"I was lucky. My father was a foreigner who never contributed a whit to this country and abandoned me to my white mother and grandmother when I was little. But I cannot disown him no more than I can disown any other miserable excuse for a human being who happens to be black. It is, you see, his gift of blackness that more than makes up for his callous disregard of his duties. Because of him and him alone I can say whatever I want, whenever I want, wherever I want and not care a jot whom I offend, what standards I outrage, what arrogance and sense of entitlement I or any of my black relatives display. I can befriend unrepentant domestic terrorists like Bill Ayers and for twenty years have as a spiritual mentor and valued friend a ranting vicious anti-American race-baiter. For the same reason he can masquerade as a highly respected Man of God, revered for his dedication to the teachings of Him who gave us the Sermon on the Mount.
"And - perhaps this is the sweetest of all - I can condescend continuously and comprehensively to fellow citizens of lighter complexion, fob them off with fancy high-flown rhetoric grotesquely at odds with what I have otherwise and always done and said - and get completely away with it. Indeed be hailed by media types, each one a Liberal out of New York, what Michelle likes to call a LOONY, as a Seer and Prophet of Biblical proportions which it is your lucky lot to be brainwashed, bamboozled and browbeaten into voting for.
"So, you see, I am in a unique position to offer Hope, promise Change and bring about Unity in this country of ours with its wretchedly difficult National Anthem and associated obsessions with lapel pins, flags and hands on hearts. Today I can place my hand on my heart and pledge to you that, provided you recognize once and for all the utter Typicality and Whiteness of your Personhood and promise to spend every waking hour making atonement for it, yes, with that proviso, I can pledge that I will continue my twin campaigns of Hope and Healing. And when you elect me your President I further pledge that I will create a country in which TWerPs just like your humble selves will be afforded the opportunity to experience the cleansing Joy of Atonement all day every day."
Senator Obama paused for a brief dramatic moment. "Now, my pale friends, can you keep your part of the bargain? Can you make your TWerP Pledge?" "Yes, we can," the crowd cried out ecstatically. "Yes, we can. Yes, we can. Yes, we can." At a sign from the Senator a sudden hush fell over the hall until, as if impelled by an invisible hand, all the people rose up as one and chanted: "We are TWerPs and are utterly ashamed all the time, everywhere, of everything. We must atone. We can atone. We will atone."
Acceptance is the first step to Redemption.
Come Out to your family, your neighbors, the whole world.
Be proud of your shame. Go here and purchase this plain simple totally uncool and therefore utterly typically white t-shirt. Never again will you have to pretend that Halle Berry can act or feel the need to find deep social commentary in rap lyrics.
The chanting continued long after Senator Obama had left for another Atonement Rally in Sausalito and didn't end until the security personnel provided for the occasion by Rev. Louis Farakhan's Nation of Islam ushered them quietly out of doors.
Senator Obama will take a break from his two campaigns tomorrow to fly to Washington to meet with TV presenters and talk show hosts of the major networks for a ring-kissing ceremony.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
National Anthems are funny things or rather the way they are treated by their respective citizens is worthy of comment.
The English bellow a dreary ditty imploring God in whom .00001% of them actually believe to "save their gracious" monarch, currently and for the foreseeable future a member of the Saxe-Coburg-Gotha (aka "Windsor") dynasty, a bunch (the present impeccable incumbent excepted) to whom graciousness is as foreign as dignity is to Eliot Spitzer.
The Scottish, a cowed, embittered lot, howl to shreds a tuneful ballad commemorating a victory over the hated yet apparently necessary English which happened so long ago dinosaur steaks were still a living memory.
The Welsh - a gallant neglected ill-used race, not least of all by themselves - deliver a magnificent, Methodistical, massed choral rendition of a poem in Welsh praising their beloved gwlad (native land) and yr haniaith (the ancient tongue) which still flourishes among them. Always a most moving and haunting occasion, musically and otherwise.
The Irish - renowned the world over for their spontaneous outbursts of songs sad and merry - declare themselves fianna fáil (warrior bands of destiny) atá faoi gheall ag Éirinn (who are pledged to Ireland) yet with little of the passion and pride the words so lustily express. All in all a limp angst-ridden performance by a people brainwashed by a treacherous Anglophile elite into a Green Guilt about their awe-inspiring fight for freedom, dignity and nationhood against all the odds - and I do mean all.
The French with the most rousing call to revolutionary war ever penned become for a brief shining moment the red-capped stormers of the Bastille and the invincible victors of Austerlitz before sinking back into the smug, selfish - but always stylish - aimlessness that is now the metier of a nation that was once the greatest of the earth. A cautionary tale.
The Germans can be ignored. They're so terrified of being excommunicated from the human race as the spawn of Hitler by Le Monde and the New York Times and the EU kleptocracy in Brussels that they shuffle through a series of notes neither national in spirit nor an anthem in effect so they can get back to their true role in life, mentally denouncing themselves for having ever been born. Another cautionary tale.
The Americans possess a beautiful touching and musically nuanced song that perfectly captures the pride, courage and triumph of a young nation that yelled defiance at the pretensions of a Super Power - the English once again. (They run like a bold red thread through our variegated tapestry, do they not? As Daphne might say to Frazier, "I wonder why?") This beautiful ballad of course requires the combined vocal powers of Nellie Melba and Luciano Pavorotti backed by the massed voices of the Red Army Choir to render properly. A unique disadvantage which the Opening Day of Baseball Season serves sadly and invariably to highlight.
This matters not a jot to Americans. All other nations set great store by how well their Anthems are sung. It is, well, a matter of honor. A below par performance calls forth a mighty tut-tutting and much grim headshaking. The inhabitants of "the land of the brave" and the residents of "the homes of the free" are quite indifferent to such blindingly obvious considerations. Where citizens of other countries would squirm and grit their teeth down to the very gums at the screeching, caterwauling and sudden manic changes of key to which "The Star Spangled Banner" is regularly subjected, Americans are just stood there, serenely prideful, as if their ear canals had been injected with quick-drying concrete by their obstetrician as part of a weird birthing rite.
This is because the American National Anthem is not first and foremost a patriotic song but rather a pledge of allegiance that happens to be set to music. It is a pledge which each American personally takes to the Flag honored by the song and the Republic for which it stands. It is not a jingoistic expression of nationalist sentiment but rather a solemn public re-consecration of the duty each citizen feels to the United States and the principles upon which the Union was founded.
This is why Americans during the playing of their National Anthem invariably do something that immediately strikes foreigners as downright unnecessary: they - as one - place their right hand over their heart. This is the outward sign of the civic sacrament in which both individually and communally they are participating. European know-it-alls who see the cultural and political exhaustion of their Continent as a mark of a highly evolved aesthetic and intellectual sensibility deride this gesture as a particularly naive form of nativist American simplemindedness. Cornpone, in a word.
American soi disant sophisticates have the same attitude. No surprise there. The supranational Liberal elites across the western world cooperate assiduously to weave a seamless shroud for what they hope will be the corpse of the only civilization that would allow them to exist. For such as these American patriotism is for Republican warmongers, corporate ogres, trailer park trash, fly-over Bible-thumpers and unreconstructed lunch-pail ignoramuses. In other words, the vast majority of the American people as refracted through the special ideological eye-glasses that are a de rigeur fashion accessory among the far left of the Democratic Party.
That Barack Obama shares this world view is now, of course, clear to everyone. It took Jeremiah Wright - God bless him - to make that manifest to us. But there were quite a few straws in the wind before that. Michelle Obama's otherwise inexplicable inability to be proud of her country. Obama's refusal to have a flag pin on his lapel which would amount to nothing except that after 9/11 he sported one for some time then decided to get quit of it.
There was of course another telling moment. Yes, we return to the Star Spangled Banner. At a Democratic fry-up in Iowa last year attended by candidates Bill Richardson, Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama the National Anthem was, well, let's call it sung. The platform party rises. They place hands over heart. All but two that is. One is a guy who stands to attention and turns to face the huge flag behind him. The other is Senator Obama. He doesn't stand erect and he doesn't place hand on heart. He doesn't quite slouch either but kind of lingers there in what you could call a posture of polite indifference as if patiently waiting for the song to end. This attitude is underscored by his cradling his hands in front of his crotch all the while.
See it here.
Those who brought this extraordinary behavior to public attention at the time were scorned, mocked, derided, cat-called and generally run out of town on a rail by the Mainstream Media. The rest of us - who hold the MSM in the same regard as Mr. Hankey - were nonetheless bamboozled into acquiescence. It was a trivial no-account affair. Like the business about the lapel pin. It required a lovingly polished paranoia fueled by copious drafts of Jim Beam to read anything into such trivia. The guy was tired, for Heaven's sake. He was thinking long long thoughts. He had tennis elbow. He didn't recognize the song and - given the torture to which it was subjected - who could blame him. Et cetera. Et reliqua. Et multa alia.
Now of course we all know better. We have, after all, attended Jeremiah Wright's seminar: "Far Left Anti-Americanism - The Tell-Tale Symptoms". The vanishing lapel pin, the wife's grudging remarks, the crotch cradling salute to the Flag all now make sense because we don't now feel the need to explain them away. They fit into a pattern so saddening, so dismaying, so outrageously at odds with the image Obama sought to foist on us that it will take some time for the American people to come to grips with this gut-wrenching truth:
The only thing that Barack Obama likes about the America we love is the Presidency.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
In what he hoped would be seen as a thoughtful, statesman-like, intelligent speech delivered in Constitution Hall in the City of Brotherly Love Senator Barack Obama (D-Ill) sought to extricate himself from the octopus of militant Black racism that is threatening to squeeze the jizz out of his post-racial Presidential campaign. Pity he had to throw his white grandma to the wolves in the process. Collateral damage, I suppose. Well, that's one of the reasons he's against the Iraq war.
Madelyn Dunham with her husband Stanley raised Barack when his hippyesque mother abandoned him for Indonesia and a new husband when the little tyke was ten. His Kenyan father did a bunk years before in pursuit of an Ivy League doctorate. Madelyn, now in her mid-eighties, stood by him providing him with a supportive family, a good home, health care and an excellent education, in fact all those things which form the bedrock of his own campaign. She wiped his nose, plastered his scrapes and kissed his bruises, guided him through the difficult teenage years at a time in her life when she would surely have welcomed a wee respite from child rearing. She loved him as a mother, "sacrificed again and again for me," he says, and Barack, apparently, loved her back. That was before he ran for President of course.
There was however a serpent in the Garden all the while. Madelyn, who not only raised this forsaken little black boy but also reared his mother, a woman who made two inter-racial marriages, was herself a racist. We have her eloquent grandson's word for it. His grandma, you see, the Senator tells us, "once confessed her fear of black men who passed by her on the street..." One wonders what exactly she said. Maybe she turned to the gangly grandkid and confessed "[t]here is nothing more painful for me at this stage in my life than to walk down the street and hear footsteps and start thinking about robbery—and then look around and see somebody white and feel relieved.”
No, wait, it wasn't Madelyn Dunham who said that, it was Jesse Jackson, famed Civil Rights leader, confidant of Martin Luther King, and former Democratic Presidential contender and himself a black man. For further revelations concerning the redoubtable Jesse's excursions into - gasp! - racial profiling we will, no doubt, have to await a Presidential campaign by one of his grandchildren. Obama, driving the knife in further, also insists that his granny made him "cringe" by uttering "on more than one occasion...racial or ethnic stereotypes". He does not elaborate and, unless home movie clips surface on Youtube in the future, we are left to fill in the blanks as luridly as our imaginations will allow. Maybe she asserted that Blacks were spreading AIDS in order to wipe out homosexuals, a section of the population of which they are not avowedly very fond? Or that Asians were unfairly using their manifest predilection for higher mathematics to keep white boys out of MIT? Or that those Latinos are real good at mowing lawns and making beds?
Who knows? Who cares! If cringe-making remarks by the elderly relatives of up-and-coming Liberal Ivy League smart-arses are to become fodder for Presidential campaigns God help us all.
"Oh stop that now, Grandma.
You're making me cringe."
But this is Obama, the Great, the Good (may his Middle Name be ever blessed yet ever mute!), the Most High Prophet of national unity and racial redemption, the Usherer-In of a new era of peace and harmony, the presumptive Presider-Over of a new joyous global order of justice and prosperity for all. And there he stands before a hushed, expectant world trashing his poor old granny for all he's worth.
At least when ol' Bill got caught with his Presidential rowdydowdow where no married rowdydowdow should be, Presidential or otherwise, he didn't draw himself up to his full height and, glancing from one teleprompter to another, declare righteously that the lascivious exploitation of airhead interns was actually a national obsession about which the American people must have a full and frank dialog. Nor did he add "Why, I remember cringing in a strangely excited kind of way when my grandpappy - God bless his salacious heart - on a number of occasions made some off color remarks about Betty Sue with those fine melons from out Shady Creek way."
This sleight of hand which attempts to palm off old Ma Dunham's peccadilloes as the moral equivalent and political quid pro quo of Reverend Wright's hate-filled rants is all of a piece with the rest of Obama's speech. It was a skillfully crafted oration though delivered in a strange low-key manner without any of the panache, power and vocal subtleties of his previous set-pieces. The audience was subdued and sombre, altogether different from the passionate worshipful crowds off of which he normally plays with such spellbinding virtuosity. His performance had a stilted, tentative quality about it, as if he were an expert pathologist forced by a wretched circumstance to autopsy the violated corpse of a love one. There was about him a certain sad distaste coupled with a bitter determination to see the business through to the end as best he could.
The matter of the speech was like a trompe d'oeil which glanced from a distance convinces us of its reality but which on more careful observation proves itself to be a cleverly executed sham. Wright is declared a "crank" and his rabid views "repudiated" but Obama cannot "disown" him. Why ever not? Because he cannot "disown" the black community nor his wretchedly ill-used grandmother. Now a blood relative as a matter of biological reality cannot be "disowned" in any meaningful way. His grandmother will be forever his grandmother. He did not choose her nor he can void the connection. In any event it is he and he alone who dragged her by her chignon into this sorry saga for the very purpose of declaring his inability to be quit of her.
As for this fellow blacks why should he "disown" or in any way distance himself from them? Who suggested that or wants it? No one. Except perhaps the Senator himself in his earlier incarnation as a post-racial candidate whose complexion and physiognomy were regarded by him as mere genetic accidents. Blacks across the nation, he asserts, huddle around "the kitchen table" and mutter dark racially charged sentiments to each other that they are careful to keep hidden from their white compatriots. Such a charge in respect of 25 million citizens is outrageous but it also deliberately misses the point. If there are black people who parrot Jeremiah Wright's anti-American racist hate to each other, that's exactly what they're doing, parroting it. Wright in his pulpit is not simply a conduit for black racism he is one of its generators.
That ignorant and ill-educated African-Americans - for no one with any real knowledge can believe them - repeat the abominations of a respected pastor is unremarkable and in itself underlines the damage that Wright and his likes cause to all races in America but mostly to the very people he claims to be raising up. This also demonstrates the absolute necessity that Obama should feel for utterly cutting all ties with this man once and for all. Instead he lends his status and power to respectablizing a vile demagogue, repudiating some of the man's words - and what is a preacher but his words made flesh? - while clasping the man who utters them to his bosom. Can those credulous enough to be in thrall to the Reverend in the first place appreciate the nice distinction? Can anyone?
Under the guise of initiating a "national dialog" on race - an inane concept anyway being, as it is, a mere pious metaphor completely lacking any meaningful application in the real world - Obama invokes slavery and Jim Crow, the Ku Klux Klanners and Alabama water fountains to tap into White Guilt, a never-to-be-depleted resource for Democratic hucksters to blind folk of all colors and none to the utter failure of their discredited "Great Society" bromides. He condemns Jeremiah Wright's view of America as "static" yet in the next breath justifies such radical disaffection among blacks as the inevitable result of the bad schools, poor health care and squalid crime-riddled neighborhoods to which the callous indifference of white America is still condemning them, this despite the gargantuan amount of treasure which Governments of both parties and all ideological hues have poured into myriad programs to tackle these very ills since that good ol' boy, LBJ, stetson waving, rode to the rescue way back in 1964.
In other words, by means of a breathtaking rhetorical "Ali shuffle", Obama, while ostensibly condemning his pastor, pulls off a 360 degree pivot and in fact endorses Wright's analysis of the American condition, sympathizes with the rage which this analysis generates and repudiates merely the form and expression which that analysis and rage are given in the notorious sermons. In effect he is saying that anti-Americanism and black racism are politically legitimate as long as their proponents don't actually foam at the mouth in public. He doesn't disown Wright because he fundamentally agrees with him!
The Obama campaign, the MoveOn.Organists and his worshipers in the MSM are spinning this sorry flim-flam of a speech like a top but to no avail. Barack Obama has lost his mojo and he ain't getting it back no how, no way.
He stood before us in Constitution Hall on Monday for all to see: just another cynical politician stuck in the mire using every trick he can think of to save just another cynical political career.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
We were, it now appears, a little too rash in dismissing as the ravings of a lunatic the Reverend Jeremiah Wright's claims of genocide targeted against the African-American community. However the pastor erred in believing that the Federal Government is directing this attack. It is merely supporting it with great chunks of tax dollars. The favored means of accomplishing the destruction of the black population is not drugs or even AIDS from which disease some 300,000 African-Americans have died. A mere drop in the bucket. Abortion, on the other hand, working away silently in the background with a deadly efficiency, has destroyed over 11,000,000 black Americans since 1973. In fact abortion kills more blacks in three days - say last Wednesday, Thursday and Friday - than the Ku Klux Klan did in its entire execrable history.
Planned Parenthood is a very big cog in this killing machine with 600 plus affiliates throughout the United States. Founded by Queen Bee eugenicist and anything-but-closet racist, Margaret Sanger, an enduring Left Wing icon, PP mans phones around the nation 24/7 so that the Right-To-Choose mills can grind quickly but also exceeding small.
This is where The Advocate, a Pro-Life group based in the UCLA campus, comes in. Lila Rose, Advocate editor in chief and her associate, James Kelly, phoned various PP offices around the country with Kelly posing as "David", a disgustingly blatant racist donor who wished to target his contributions on African-American fetuses, kind of like so many smart bombs, because, he states frankly "the less black kids out there the better".
Autumn Kersey, PP's Director of Development in Idaho, doesn't give him an earful and slam down the phone - the instinctive reaction of any normal sentient being in the greater galaxy. Hell, even the Klan's Great Kool Kackling Klaxon or whatever he calls himself would've whispered "Hey, buddy, take it easy, I know where you're coming from but we don't talk like that anymore".
But no, not the PP. The lovely Autumn - such a poetically apt name for an abortion procurer, doncha think - does none of those things. Her pure snow-white progressivist ideology has long ago killed off any human decency she had. She - I still find it hard to get my head around it - she laughs. Yes. Laughs. A delicious throaty chuckle. The equivalent, one supposes, of the Masonic handshake. A "when a bigot of the Left meets a bigot of the Right coming through the rye" sort of thing. Then she murmurs soothingly, "Understandable, understandable".
Autumn then recasts "David's" wishes into classic anodyne aborto-speak: "[Y]ou would like this [donation] designated specifically to assist [an] African-American woman who's looking to terminate a pregnancy?" Sanding off those rough rabid edges. Sounds so much better than "You're paying us to keep those dirty n****rs from over-breeding."
"David" is worried about his college going son who's "really faced troubles with affirmative action". He lays it on the line so there's no misunderstanding: "I wanna protect my son, so he can get into college." Autumn is sympathetic but she's more than sympathetic, she's positively over the moon. "I'm excited," she burbles "and I wanna make sure I don't leave anything out."
Blacks make up 12% of the US population but account for 35% of all abortions. But don't despair. With Autumn and her cohorts on the job we'll bump that measly proportion up so far that all the affirmative action in the universe will be as seeds falling upon barren ground.
Rose and Kelly elicited similar responses from Planned Parenthood's stormtroopers all over a country that likes to think of itself as "the last best hope of the earth". It's beyond belief, yet believe it we must. It's beyond sickening and sickened we are, at least those of us not so filled with liberal "compassion" for the poor and disadvantaged and lefty "concern" for "excluded minorities" that we can't see the real human beings living in the deep dark shadows cast by a heartless "enlightened" Marxist sociology.
The great and the good of Planned Parenthood are, of course, screaming foul. It's a "scam" they cry. It's no scam. It was a trap and they fell into it. They were given an opportunity to stand naked before the world in all their moral decrepitude and they took the bait. A fish is no less a fish because he's hooked. Indeed he's hooked because he is a fish ever seeking lesser life to prey upon. So it is with with PP and all the other organs of legalized infanticide. They prey upon these "the least of our brethern" in the name of compassion and progress, a truly obscene distortion of language and of the worthy ideals which the language expresses.
Planned Parenthood's only means of exonerating themselves from the charges of racism is to declare that they are in fact color-blind dealers in death who facilitate the brutal ending of human life with indiscriminate abandon. It is only in a truly sick world that such an argument can be made with any hope of eliciting approval.
So Pastor Wright was right after all. Maybe Senator Obama will join with the man "who brought [him] to Christ" and fight for those who of the innocent are the most helpless and of the helpless are the most innocent.
Of course Senator Obama never saw a pro-abortion bill he didn't support to the hilt nor a proposal to control abortion that he didn't strive might and main to kill off.
But wait. He just yesterday repudiated the Reverend!
Phew, that was close.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Polar bears are sighted more frequently in the steamy jungles of Guatemala than is Barack Obama on Fox News Channel so this is a rare treat for all of us who study endangered species in hostile habitats. Here the Big O attempts to slam shut the Pastorgate, lock it tight and throw the key as far away from his campaign as a Tom Brady Hail Mary. I reckon he pulls it off. Judge for yourself. See it here.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Barack Obama's pastor, the Rev. Jeremiah Wright, has been described as "controversial" and "provocative" but as more and more of his ex cathedra pronouncements surface it appears that "paranoid", "extremist" and "lunatic" must be added to any comprehensive description of this man of the cloth.
Some of his positions are indeed merely controversial and provocative, particularly his views on Israel and the 9/11 terror attacks. The American view that total commitment to Israel is the moral duty of everyone of good will is nonsense. Strenuous opposition to the Arab desire for her extirpation is of course virtuous but to see the core Middle East conflict through manichean spectacles of absolute good pitted against absolute evil is wrongheaded and, as is clear, does nothing to bring about a peaceful - or even less blood-soaked - solution.
Similarly, one can condemn the 9/11 attacks as appalling terrorist atrocities calling for the most severe countermeasures and still argue that the policies of successive Washington Administrations contributed to turning bin Laden from just another sectarian hate-monger into the iconic leader of a worldwide jihad. Indeed an open exchange of views is the only way to develop a genuine strategic understanding of the militant Islamist mindset.
Now the Reverend's positions on Israel and 9/11 are more extreme than that but he is throwing his tuppence worth into what should be - though rarely is - a rational debate on vital issues affecting not only the US but the whole world. It is when he turns his baleful gaze exclusively upon his own country that Minister Wright takes flight into the higher reaches of paranoia and hate and becomes a full-blown blood-curdling, ranting, foaming at the mouth, anti-racist racist.
"Racism is alive and well," he thunders. "Racism is how this country was founded and how this country is still run. No black man will ever be considered for president, no matter how hard you run Jesse [Jackson] and no black woman can ever be considered for anything outside what she can give with her body." To use such language in 1966 would have been unexceptional. It is difficult to argue that forty years ago such a characterization of America was anything other than at worst a slight exaggeration. But Reverend Wright was speaking in 2006 and these days his words are not simply hyperbolic they're downright inflammatory and paranoid.
He fleshes out this theory of rampant racism with fulminations that are as fearsome as they are fantastical. The US government developed AIDS to decimate the black population. It connives with international drug lords to flood the African-American communities with narcotics to the same end. Caring "nothing about human life if the end justifies the means", Americans are wedded to a brutal philosophy of "white supremacy and black inferiority". Indeed this is the true religion of a people who seek to "maintain [their] level of living by making sure that Third World people live in grinding poverty".
This is not the whole story. As anyone who has witnessed him in the full frenzy of his rapture can attest, Jeremiah Wright is a powerful, passionate and gifted orator. In the pulpit he can "shuck and jive" with the best of them. He weaves, sways and swivels. He pumps the air with the vigor of a Tyson going in for the kill. He roars and bellows, cackles and growls. He scolds, excoriates and denounces with the divine disdain of an Hebrew prophet. He slips in sly asides and bawdy innuendos. His words come in a terrific torrent, driven by a pent up righteous wrath that will never know relief. Through his sermons he sculpts towering monuments of sound and fury to the eternal suffering, humiliation and despair of his people. He is the Black Milton of a Paradise Denied.
He is also a demagogue. And very dangerous because of his talents. Where Obama inspires, he inflames. Where Obama soothes, he rouses. Where Obama conjures hope in the heart, he calls up rage in the bowels. Where Obama brings the nation together, he cleaves it in twain. Where Obama transcends race, he lusts for it, seizes it, possesses it even as he loathes it and its power over him and his people. Where Obama senses he is a Great Man, he knows he is already a Mighty One for he has made his peace with his downfall and like Lucifer strains every sinew to drag us puny mortals into his fiery pit.
He is bizarro-Obama. Darth Vader to Obama's Anakin Skywalker.
This is why the Pastor wields power over the Senator who reveres him. Jeremiah Wright supplies his wants. Obama, for all his eloquence and magnetism, is a latté politician, blended and bland. There is too much milk in him to tickle the connoisseur's palate. He lacks bite, body. He is Beauty and Wright is the Beast to whom he is inexorably, inexplicably, irrevocably attracted. Like the timid boy to the bully. For Obama lacks courage. He is essentially effete, as are his devotees. This sets the bounds to his triumphant march. He cannot touch the hearts of the working class no more than Frazier and Niles can buddy up with Martin and his pal Duke.
Obama is still young enough and gifted enough to have all of life's great prizes in his reach. But he cannot grasp the greatest of them all which glitters tantalizingly just beyond his fingertips. As has been frequently remarked, he is no closer. Why? Because he has everything to lose and he fears a misstep - any misstep - that may cause him to stumble so near his goal. So he stands still, neither advancing nor drawing back. To gain his end he must fill the vessel of his candidacy, golden but empty, with something more nourishing that a double latté with a sprinkle of cinnamon.
In a word he must define himself. But he will not because he cannot. Not simply because he lacks courage but because he lacks guts. Guts, that which we find when we reach down deep, oh so deep into ourselves. That irreducible essence that makes us us. The self each individual refers to when he says "myself". It is our "No" to fate. Its what made Michelangelo paint the "Last Judgment", Lincoln fight a Civil War and - for it is admirable only if the person is good - it's what compelled Hitler to invade Russia.
Of course some of us never find it and let our lives drift in the meandering stream of the passing years.
Jeremiah Wright may be paranoid and delusional and a false prophet to his people but he has guts. He found them somewhere long ago in a childhood poisoned by hate and contempt.
Hillary has guts. She found them in 1992 with the Gennifer Flowers humiliation. And again this year in New Hampshire.
John McCain has guts. He found them forty years ago in Hanoi.
So now we know who the two candidates for the Presidency will be in the Year of the Lord 2008.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
As New York Governor Eliot Spitzer's career slips inexorably into a cesspit of his own making, the Left Wing, the ever-vigilant watchdogs of everybody's morality but their own, are beginning to circle the same media wagons which successfully held off Ken Starr's Comancheros in Buffalo Bill Clinton's day. Harper's Magazine sniffs out the real culprit in this whole sorry affair and it's not the horny Hillary-supporting Democratic Super Delegate. Nor is it the brothel keepers who oversaw a nationwide prostitution network from their New Jersey apartment. It is - yes, you got it in one - the Justice Department. The Bush Justice Department, to be absolutely precise which reporter Scott Horton indignantly informs us "has opened 5.6 cases against Democrats for every one involving a Republican". Finally the progressives have found at least one preferential quota system they're more than happy to denounce!
Governor Eliot Spitzer unable
to conceal his dismay at
the Vast Right-Wing Conspiracy
about to engulf his crusading
But Scott wasn't satisfied with mere number crunching. He consulted the almanacs, lunar cycles, tidal data and various other arcane record sources and discovered that "a number of the cases seem to have been tied closely to election cycles". Seem to have been tied? Considering that the US, probably uniquely among the world's democracies, holds national, state and local elections every two years with long primary campaigns beforehand, it would be astonishing, nay impossible for "a number" of anything - baseball records, jaywalking convictions, births of ginger-haired infants - not to seem to correlate with increased polling booth activity.
Horton waffles on about the White-Slave Traffic Act which was passed in 1910 - imagine 1910 - which apparently makes it really too old to actually, well, enforce. This Act is, he proclaims, "highly disreputable"? Why? Because some well-known and some not really well-known folks were convicted under it way back when. Jack Johnson, a black champion boxer, Charlie Chaplin, an English comic actor, some professor from Chicago and a woman from Canada who wrote books. Oh yes, and they were all really horny.
Another give-away concerning this investigation is that enough resources were "dedicated" - smell the zealotry - to it so it could be done properly! But the real smoking gun is that the DoJ nailed Spitzer because "they were looking into Spitzer's payments". (Emphasis in original) A bank, concerned with the Governor's peculiar movement of monies, had informed the IRS, as they are mandated to do in these troubled times. In this way the Public Integrity Section of the Bush Department of Justice got involved.
Horton is exercised that the investigation discovered the prostitution ring through its probing of Spitzer's financial shenanigans (he was muddying the money trail that paid for his hooker habit through phony off-shore accounts) rather than the other way around! There is, apparently, a politically correct order in which crimes must be uncovered that the vast army of PR enforcers failed to inform the rest of us about - a unique oversight. The fact that the IRS and "a bank" were involved more or less clinches it for Harper's that this is "a politically motivated prosecution".
What next? The "discovery" that the Bush FBI suborned one of the kitchen staff to slip a fistful of Viagra into poor Eliot's o.j. every morning so that the rising Democratic star and anti-corporate White Knight became a helpless victim of his pharmaceutically inflamed libido?
This is beginning to take on a weary familiarity. It is Bill's legacy to us all. A President, who accepts fellatio oris linguaeque in the Oval Office, is still feted as the Great Leader. Why should not a humble Governor, who had the decency to pay the lady handsomely for services rendered in a mere public hostelry, not finish his term?
So, are we in for another display of Clintonesque lawyerizing? "Ah did not have safe sex with that hooker...uh...Mistress Kristen."
More toe-curling Bubba-like baring of the soul? "Ah have caused pain in muh marriage."
Further psychopathic clinging to power in the face of popular repugnance while media shills busily gnaw away at what's left of public integrity because the sanctimonious prig who disgraced himself is a Democrat and ipso facto as inviolate as...every other Democrat?
For Chrissake, Spitzer, you were caught with your fandango in the cookie jar three ways to Tuesday fortnight. Resign already!
And if he does quit, it's still not safe to breathe without a mask . Elect Hillary in the Fall and we will have the sewage running through our living-rooms for a further four years!
John McCain (R - Az)
prepares for yet another
Philip Dormer Stanhope, 4th Earl of Chesterfield (1694-1773), Whig grandee, man of letters, patron of the arts, quodam Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and life-long reprobate knew whereof he spake when he said of fornication:
The pleasure is momentary, the position ridiculous and the cost prohibitive.
Whadda ya sayin'? Chesterton? Speak up, Goddamn it. Oh, Chesterfield. Earl Chesterfield? Never heard of him. Must be a Republican.
Monday, March 10, 2008
The New York Times have crystallized their strategy towards Republican nominee Senator John McCain (R-Az): if you can't smear him or get him to blow his top, kill him. Problem solved.
The 71 year old senator might seem as tough as a windswept craggy outcrop somewhere off the coast of Maine but, take it from the Times, he's DYING! Yes, Goddammit, dying, I tell you. If we elect him we're all doomed. Doomed. He's not immortal as his campaign have declared him to be from the beginning. How often have we all been suckered by those McCain flyers, posters, robocalls and ads declaring "Vote for McCain. He doesn't get sick. He'll NEVER die!" It was all a cunning ploy, my friends. John McCain, I weep even as I write this, will die. The day will come when he will draw his last breath, cease to be, shift off the mortal coil, as it were, become one with the ages. But that's not the worst part. There's more. Not only will he die but we don't even know when! It could be today, tomorrow, next week. Next year, maybe. Twenty seven months, 3 weeks and nine days from now. Or, perhaps, he'll break the century marker. We just don't know.
The NYT, famed the world over for its fearless, scrupulously fair-minded, no-holds-barred investigative reporting, tears off the mask of indestructibility behind which McCain has cowered until now to reveal the frail disease-riddled palsied reality that is this, alas, mere mortal man. Lawrence K. Altman of the Times is an M.D. and his trained medical eye noticed a bulge in the Senator's left cheek which had seemed to us laypersons merely a wad of chewing 'baccy to which McCain, being a Republican, was, among other loathsome right-wing habits, obviously addicted. The Doc probed further and discovered that instead of tobacco the Republican candidate is addicted to cancer! "Mr. McCain," he tells us ominously, "has had four melanomas." Count them. Shoulder (1993). Left arm, nose (2002). Temple (2000). Yup. Four. They were all surgically removed (the cool insider lingo is "excised", Latin for "cut out"). Only one was "serious", the lesion on his left temple. The surgery left the patient with the 'baccy bulge' the Doc so cunningly picked up on. McCain has been given the all clear in subsequent check ups.
Dr. Altman is still worried, very worried. After all we're talking a Republican candidate here with a real shot and the guaranteed cancer-proof Dems in disarray. All is not lost, thank Fidel. The Doc prognosticates that if someone survives the first five years (Mac is now seven years and counting) "the probability of recurrence during the [following] five years was 14 percent and death 9 percent, a study published in 1992 found". Yes indeed. Death. Say it slowly. Roll it upon the tongue. Savor its dismal delights. Death. Ah, yes, "easeful Death" in John (Note the same Christian name and he died too. Just a coincidence?) Keats' felicitous phrase. Ask not for whom the bell tolls 91 percent of the time, for the remaining absolutely vital 9 percent it tolls for...well, for someone, that's for sure, and it could be John McCain, who knows?
Voters, you have been warned. Elect John McCain at your peril. He will die sometime somewhere of something. Lawrence the Physician invites us by implication to imagine that when the dread phone rings in the White House at 3 am the War Hero President will raise it to his lips and drop dead on the spot of a veritable cascade of melanomas that were queuing up all these years waiting for their chance to pounce! Truly a jihad of skin cancers will carry off the Great Man.
But wait! The Vice President will take his place toute de suite . Another Republican! By the Beard of Khalid Sheik Mohammed, there's no end to them. Hope however is at hand. At the subdued swearing in the very next day a reporter from the Times notices that the new President has a slight cough...
Thursday, March 6, 2008
"[Raskolnikov] woke up late next day after a broken sleep. But his sleep had not refreshed;
he woke up bilious, irritable, ill-tempered, and looked with hatred at his room. It was a tiny cupboard of a room about six paces in length. It had a poverty-stricken appearance with its dusty yellow paper peeling off the walls..."
Thus Dostoevsky describes his anti-hero's insalubrious situation in Crime And Punishment. Of course - it's Dostoevsky after all - this is as much a delineation of Raskolnikov's psychological dilapidation as it is of the squalor of his physical surroundings. As such it can also stand as a surreal metaphor for Hillary Clinton's equally desperate position. She pocketed Rhode Island with ease, triumphed handsomely in Ohio and half-nelsoned her opponent in Texas till he cried "uncle". What more can a gal do? Well something she's never done before if she is to have any hope of breaking out of that grubby room with the barf-colored wallpaper.
For all the grit and resilience she continues to display the nomination remains irretrievably out of reach. Irretrievably? Just so. As Jonathan Alter shows in a must-read analysis as brilliant as it is inexorable, even in the bizzaro-world of this year's Democratic primaries she cannot possibly make up the lost ground. "It's the math, stupid!" will be engraved on her political sarcophagus. This intractable arithmetic, of course, reflects simply the votes and victories Obama skillfully wove into a noose for her. His fifty state strategy, his netroots mobilization and his quasi-Messianic appeal together with the Clinton campaign's many hubristic miscalculations and the candidates clunky performance have built the gallows on which she now stands.
Will a pardon arrive before the bolt is pulled on her trapdoor? How? The Democratic Party with the cunning of a dedicated suicide has already cut off all possibility of second thoughts. The oh-so-representative proportional system they've installed precludes any blowout of delegate wins in the sixteen contests remaining. Ditto Michigan and Florida re-dos. The egregious Super Delegate bloc - the deus-ex-machina designed specifically to thwart a Jesse Jacksonesque hijack of the nomination - is rendered as helpless as a deer in the headlights of Obama's post-racial New-Agey bandwagon. The Blacks are solid for him, and who could blame them. The Uppity Whites find he gives meaning to their vacuous Godless existences filled heretofore with latte, botox, Al-Gorery, and self-righteous political disaffection bordering on treachery. They're his to the end. The Youth - all Game Boy and You Tube - are enjoying the Coolness, Like, Of It All and won't quit. Hillary, who was supposed to break the mold, is left with the old FDR coalition (minus the now republicanized South), and since the Daddy of the New Deal died three score and three years ago that's never going to be enough.
This is a tragedy for Hillary but for the Dems it's an unmitigated disaster. The Obama balloon, buffeted by sudden journalistic squalls, is beginning to leak. The oratorical tour de force of his Iowa speech - a truly magnificent performance - cannot be reprised even on a monthly basis and not become diminished. You can lose your virginity only once. More often requires painful and expensive reconstructive surgery and a prudish billionaire's desperate bride. So it is with those outside the Democratic Primary constituency yet to be enthralled by the Big O. With them he must go it again. If nominated he must burst upon the national scene fresh and unheard a second time and then weave his spell over voters not congenitally disposed to respond to his eloquent and elegant Buy-The-World-A-Coke persona. This is impossible. Those now unmoved and those initially impressed who now see his performance as just a particularly tony version of the usual politician's shtick will not be won over. He is just another liberal - very liberal - demagogue selling the same shop-worn bill of goods that Lyndon Johnson glorified as the Great Society. The intervening decades have rendered a merciless verdict on LBJ's Utopia. Obama is, therefore, unelectable. This will be clear to even the Swooners long before November. When that happens even his core support will melt like sea-foam on damp sand.
If Obama is a sprinter with only enough stamina to last a couple of laps, Hillary is made by nature and nurture for the forbidding steeplechase of a Presidential campaign. She has, as they say in sporting circles, "a good engine". What she doesn't have is a personality which can be put on public display. Like Dracula she must flee the light. So, as with Nixon, another unappealing hard-done-by individual with rampant paranoid tendencies, she is in a constant battle to remain invisible while at the same time commanding the attention of all.
This takes its toll on candidate and campaign alike. She takes refuge in wonkery, conjuring up a blizzard of policy minutiae to hide within. Like the homely girl at the Prom, deserted by her reluctant date, she disappears into her usefulness to others, laughing unnervingly before the punchline, fetching drinks, doing a running repair on her glamorous friend's dress, rehanging a drooping banner, pretending not to notice when the Prom King cuts her dead. Hence all the silly lies, so profoundly humiliating when they are revealed, as she must know they will be - she was named after the conqueror of Everest; she is a life-long Yankee fan; she's "fine" with the philanderings of that sorry excuse for a husband of hers; she helped broker peace in Ireland.
McCain's campaign is founded on what he is, Obama's on what he hopes to persuade us he is, Hillary vanishes into what she promises to do for us. It's not really about her per se but rather about the fighter she is, the policy maven she is, the symbolic woman she is, the social worker she is, the sympathetic friend she is, the dedicated public servant she is. She has deconstructed herself into an array of functions she can perform rather than standing before us as a whole person possessed of a variety of abilities but greater, far greater than the sum of them. This is why she seems such a phony, why everything she does, laugh, cry, whine, rage, declaim, empathize, seems coldly calculated to the extent that if she jumped off a cliff we'd reckon she was trying to corner the suicide vote. There is no personal context but rather the opposite of context, a disconnect between the what and the who. We know everything about her and more but she remains essentially a stranger, like an agoraphobic neighbor who only comes out at night. We have as little "feel" for her as we believe she has for us. This is why, once you conceive a dislike for her, as so so many have, it remains a constant unvarying response as no real person breaks through the defensive carapace to mitigate the negativity.
What all this tin-pot psychologizing amounts to is that Hillary is the Dems best bet. Her drawbacks are many, especially against McCain, but she has potential. If she is to muscle her way into the nomination against all the odds she must unleash the hidden her or at least grit her teeth and allow us a meaningful peek or two behind the iron curtain of her day-to-day persona. The sight may not be for the squeamish but it will enable us to see her as a human being and not an automaton of ambition, entitlement and dissimulation. That, unless she's the type that secretly strangles puppies in her free time, can only do good.
Those of us who don't go into convulsions of rapture at political rallies know our leaders are flawed in many ways. We vote for them if we figure those weaknesses are not such as to make them unfit to govern. Sometimes we even support them because of their imperfections. But we must be get to know them before we can make that judgment. If any politician is unwilling or unable to grant us that insight Democracy will chew them up and spit them out.
And that's as it should be.