Pope Incentious XIII

Pope Benedicthead is about to begin the proceedings of canonizing Pope j2p2 in an effort to draw attention away from Kate Middleton’s smoky, triumphant high Episcopal wedding.  But his real motives are to draw attention away from the international disgrace known as the Catholic Church, and the role he and his predecessors played in looking the other way – or worse – while unspeakable atrocities took place.  Here in Philadelphia, like Boston, Dublin and other places around the world, there is a brewing pedophilia scandal filled with salacious details.  Including money laundering with the Cosa Nostra.  

I know of a notorious Philadelphia priest who is HIV-positive, protected by the church, hires prostitutes, holding sex parties and still performs Mass on Sunday mornings.  I’ve never been to one, (the mass or the mass orgy) but I wouldn’t go even if invited. 

It is unnatural for human beings to suppress their sexual desires.  Historically in Catholicism, it’s all about property being handed down in from popes and cardinals in earlier times to leave church property to their bastard sons instead of handing it over to the ever growing yard sale in the basement of the Vatican. 

Enter the vow of chastity.

The Vatican could cure world hunger with a sidewalk sale.  But as Christ advised people to share their worldly possessions with the needy, the greediest among us while claiming pristine religious intent would never surrender their booty to people who most need it – especially to people with a different color skin or another take or worldview of right and wrong.  Rush Limbaugh who doesn’t know one useful word from the bible justifies his greed as sanctioned by Jesus – he just said so on his oral-diarrhea radio session last week .  One hopes Rush gets a brief word with the Lord while waiting out is sentence in purgatory.

The word “nepotism” stems from the word’ nephew.’  A nephew of a 15th century pope was appointed as the ’Minister of Cultural Affairs’ which gave that nephew the authority to ransack any art collection in Rome “appropriating” items that caught his eye.   The Roman Pope who build the Villa Dora Pamphilli for his favorite nephew did so under a cloud of incestuous suspicions, and little has changed since.  Catholicism is a hypocritical religion based on relinquishing worldly possessions while languishing in the most vulgar opulence in the world – while wars rage, people starve and evil takes a commanding hand the “holy” church looks the other way.  Take the present pope – a former Hitler youth.  Were I he, I’d have declined the nomination with humility based on my misguided youth.  However this is the present day where greed is God.

In early adolescence I discovered there were certain boys in my neighborhood who could be persuaded to pull-their-pants-down in little clearings in the woods and indulge in quick guilty probing experiments.  They found me first.  I must have sent out ‘vibes’ as an easy-mark. In fact I’m sure I did.

One boy in particular sticks in my mind, because he was a Catholic.  The searing guilt of sexual misconduct affords the good Catholic a far better toss in the hay than the rest of us Protestants could ever enjoy.  The pleasures of forbidden sex are greatly more elicit than the ones extracted from more guiltless parties — Its the knowledge that one is doing wrong in they eyes of the church, and can then place the whole act on auto-erase in the confessional only to re-emerge fresh as a daisy to re-sin all over again which gives Catholics such an erotic edge.

While still being too young to grasp the point of it all, some force never the less drove me to naked experimentation with other boys well prior to technical puberty.  My Catholic friend, named Giuseppe, lived down the street from me.  I managed with no difficulty to sample both he and his brother, Tony — there was no need for persuasion.  Giuseppe in particular was every bit as invested in this experimentation as I was.  Decades later, meeting Giuseppe and his wife at my 25th high school reunion, he drunkenly whispered to me that he that he used memories of our childhood experimentation together to help him through difficult performance problems with his wife.  I wound that conversation right up, and got the hell away from him as soon as I could.
Giuseppe was a tan-skinned Italian boy with jet black hair and forty two teeth.  He and I found an area where a dog had dug a trench under a great overgrown lilac bush that grew half in my back yard and half in the neighbors.  Giuseppe and I would loosen our trousers and poke around doing things on which I don’t feel it’s necessary to elaborate.  You get the picture.  Giuseppe however wanted to introduce a new element into the festivities – Costumes.  Giuseppe wanted to reenact bible stories in the nude.  He had a baby blue blanket he would drape over his head and assume postures of the blessed virgin while chanting “take, eat, this is my body which is given to thee…”  In the 1950’s, the Catholic Church was moving away from Latin and already the ramifications were showing dangerous repercussions on the youth.  So now you know why I slowly stepped back from Giuseppe at our High School Reunion.  Did I mention Giuseppe was a Catholic alter boy, as was his brother…

My mother had developed an uncanny ability to detect guilt on me whenever I entered the house.  I would emerge from the bushes zipped-up and cleansed of impure thoughts, walking nonchalantly into the house, and my mother, (Grandma Betty) would say…”What have you just been doing?  You look guilty as sin to me.   Go ahead tell me, you know you can’t put anything over on your mother.”  I would tearfully confess, go to bed without dinner, and feel like the lowest creature on the face of the earth.  When I got a little taller, I realized from the vantage point of the kitchen window, all that went on under the lilac bush was far clearer than the reception on our TV set, (with or without tin foil on the rabbit ears).  Shortly after this series of incidents my parents put the house up for sale, and we moved to a new upscale neighborhood in hopes of better influences on my impressionable mind.

Giuseppe and his brother, Tony weren’t novices at sexual experimentation.  They were alter AND choir boys, which is not dissimilar to white-slavery, only without the free-will and the voluntary loss of innocence.  I refuse to believe either j2p2 or Benedicthead were unaware of the rampant bottled-up sexual frustrations being perpetrated against children in the church’s own holy chapter of NAMBLA — turning children into the very people their parents had warned them about.  Sexual shame makes those children prime for the molesting and psychiatrists very, very rich.  Any idea how that kind of thing fucks with a person’s psyche?

In the middle ages a particularly nasty pope (they all run together in their brocade vestments), announced a “MIRACLE!!!”  800 or more years after the historic birth of Christ, it was “discovered” that Mary gave a virgin birth to to the Christ child.  Apparently they had video tapes and a statement from her gynecologist.  Lets give the historic figure of Christ some respect – he was born of a natural woman, earlier writings describe her foretelling as being a young woman pure of heart.  But after the 8th century pope was done raping, pillaging and murdering everyone in the path of his greed – he needed a miracle for public relations purposes.  Voila – The Virgin Birth.  The gullible ate it up.  That’s how the virgin birth nonsense was concocted.  Leave it to the scholars to pinpoint the name of the black-hearted holy man.  I’m too tired to to do the boring research.  Suffice it to know history repeats itself – and j2p2 is being fast-tracked to sainthood as a distraction from Benny’s ugly truths.  Let’s face it, if you can’t find it in your heart to know the difference from right and wrong, and need to turn to a cult for guidance – then your heart and head are dim. And your IQ is exceeded only by your shoe size.  So give lots of money this Sunday to the church.  Dry-cleaning vestments is mighty costly in this economy.

The American Monarchy vs the British Monarchy

When I was a little boy I used to build elaborate sandcastles with cantilevered balconies and towers.  I would then capture a Japanese beetle or spider of some sort to become the royal inhabitant of that palatial sand structure.  Mostly the bugs lost interest in the position I’d elevated them to – and merely crawled-off or flew away.

The modern royals can’t do that, but I wish them the best.  I hope they have a fairytale ending.  Someone should, God knows I won’t.  That said, I don’t envy them one bit.  Celebrity is a harsh master.  I can hardly keep ahead of my email let alone be under the scrutiny of the prying-eye of the press.  No one cares what I’m seen wearing in public.  And no one (to my recollection) has ever curtsied to me.  Cretans.

I’m happy for these two young people…  SO, can we now get back to more pressing news:  Like what is on top of Donald Trump’s head?  Is it an albino squirrel?  A whipped desert-topping?  Or the world’s worst comb-over?  Inquiring minds want to know.

Trump’s real name is “The” – as in “THE” Donald.  A very unusual first name indeed.  “Trump” is his nom d’plume given to him when he was born on a roulette table in Monte Carlo before forging his own birth records to pretend to be an American financial mogul, faux-celebrity and successful great braying fool.  I want the tabloids to hound “THE” Donald until he tosses his hat in the ring – and hopefully his hair will go with it.  Everything the blithering idiot does helps to reelect Barack Obama.  Excellent by my lights.  America fails to elect Barack Obama at their own peril.

Meanwhile, lets leave Will and Kate alone, and let them enjoy their lives.  Like who cares anyway?  For that matter who really needs a monarchy in the first place?  Certainly not America, and definitely not with Trump as king and court-jester all rolled into one.

The Day the Elastic Died…

Oh my not another slice of pie!  Drove my belly to the deli and then drained the keg dry…

Singin’ I’m gonna complain, before I start to cry…  But I’m fine, and I’m not gonna to die.

I come by these moods naturally, as I am my own mother’s son.  Grandma Betty always tried to re-mold the world into her own image – and all she ever got for her efforts was frustration.  My father, Grandpa Bob was honest to a fault – so much so that most of his dreams became unobtainable.  Honesty is no longer revered in the world, and nothing is ever going to go precisely as one might hope.  I am my parent’s child feeling the pangs of a late-in-life orphancy.

That’s when the elastic died…

I got up this morning to walk little Winnie to the park so as to beat the torrential rains which were accurately predicted — when half-way to the park both of my sneakers started to eat my socks.  That was nothing unusual – it happens all the time.  However, from my midsection below my navel there came a snapping-noise like a distant crack of thunder, leaving me with a very odd sensation.  No, this time it wasn’t gas – the elastic on my underwear had gasped it’s last breath, and was quietly snuggling it’s way down my lower torso traveling a path into either pant leg.  It was a peculiar sensation like feeling naked in public without anyone seeing.  I was walking like a person infested with bugs.  No one I passed could see my silent cries for help as Winnie peed, while I groped myself behind a tree trying to retrieve my run-away foundations and hoist them well up over my belt.  With my dead elastic waistband UP over my belt, I stopped every so often to yank-up my socks only to have them re-eaten by my sneakers.  But when I’d bend over to secure my socks, my underwear would take-on a mind of it’s own and head south again.  I was as uncomfortable as a hooker with crabs, but reasonably certain no one was paying me any mind.

They haven’t noticed for a while now.

My waistline measurements went in record time from a trim 32” to an appalling 42“ expanse.  Age and gravity ganged-up on me very suddenly over the last several EXTREMELY trying years – to epic proportions.  Proportions that are now mine for keeps – leaving me with only one option – accept my lot in life as a slightly over-weight, irritable old curmudgeon walking an adorable little dog. 

Just then a former paramour who’d once thought I was the handsomest man in the world, went jogging past looking sensational.  He was tanned, handsome and fit.  For one brief, nasty moment, I took comfort in the thought that he too would one day loose his elasticity.  He’d find himself taking blood-pressure meds and joining the wonderful world of erectile dysfunction.  But no, I caught myself in-time.  He looked vital and full of life as he waived to me during his morning run.  I’m sure it never occurred to him my underwear were peeling their way back down around my ankles to where he once preferred them – only this time it was somehow different…

In truth, I was happy for him – men in their late 40’s and early 50‘s are prime-rib by my lights.  Before the rain hit, there was that early nostalgic spring scent in the air.  I remember when that scent used to compel me to jog in track-shorts and wear my T-shirts a tad too tight to see if I could cause a fender-bender – (I actually did accomplish that once.)  I smiled and waived back at my muscular old friend, knowing I haven’t missed a thing.  I merely had a moment of jealous longing – not for who I’d once been – but for who I’d once hoped to be.  Thinking too much will do that to you.

All of this neurotic self-examination was racing through my mind during a wardrobe malfunction just as the rain started to fall.  Wet-fabric doesn’t cling to me quite in the same way it once did.  It was my old boyfriend’s turn to look hot as hell, running while glistening with fresh rainfall.

We all get our moment to blossom and bloom. I know it’s up to me to find a new way to glisten and shine.  My wet T-shirt days are long gone, but my underwear comes off as easily as it ever did.

I’ve Always relied on the kindness of Dim-lighting

I’ve always relied on dim-lighting.  Both in my personal life and in my housekeeping skills.  I decorated my home within my budget – which means, if I can slap paint on it or throw something in front of it, I do so, and with panache.  Style notwithstanding, I’m admittedly not fond of housecleaning.  Especially since I was hit with foreclosure papers over a year ago.  My inclination to clean the house ebbed exponentially once those papers and calls began belching their way into my daily life.  I was understandably depressed.  I let things to to a point where you can write your name on my living room end tables.  You can even date signatures and compare them as the months and years, dust and grease pass-by in layers.  I’m just shy of raccoons eating the wall-treatments and me wearing blouses on top of my head like they were wigs.  Foreclosure harassment can make someone crazy.

I was always such a fastidious man about both my person and my home, however the past few years have made me fonder and fonder of Edvard Munch’s classic emotional painting, ‘The Scream.’  Not to say that I don’t have some shards of dignity left.  I make an effort to shower at least twice a week – or before people start to comment.  That said, my house is at a glance, neat – but it’s decidedly not clean.

Tumbleweeds of dog-hair and dust-bunnies gently roll from thither to yon gathering only to rest around table-legs and into corners after the slightest hint of a drafty-breeze.  I can’t discuss either the kitchen or the bathroom without getting as emotional as John Boehner – all three deeply upset me – including John Boehner. 

Thus, with the pitiful condition of my housecleaning, I still have friends over.  It’s amazing to me how polite people can be.  No one mentions the way I toss scraps for the dog directly onto the floor in hopes she’ll lick the entire surface clean.  Perhaps they’re merely in shock.  But I do love my home.

I live in an historically designated area 2 blocks from Independence Hall.  Little Miss Winnie and I see that august historic structure everyday as we walk through Washington Square Park.  At home, it’s not unusual for me to be running around in my skivvies only to notice tourists looking into my living room window.  It was far easier on the eyes back during my gym-fitness days, but old habits die hard.  When I’m properly dressed, I sometimes invite the curious families of tourists inside to see my tiny historic home.  Last week while I was walking Winnie down our carriage-width alley, a young Asian couple approached me and asked me about the fire-insurance plaques that are so often prominently placed above the 2nd floor of old townhouses.  Mine is the Contributionship, founded by Benjamin Franklin in 1752, which features 4 hands forming a fireman’s carry.  There are lots of different companies – The Green Tree – The Guardian Angel, Germantown Insurance…  So I answered the question asked about the plaques.  I even told them about houses which had more than one insurance plaque back when every insurance company employed their own fire-department.  Firemen would breakout into fist-fights as to who would get credit for putting-out the fire while the house quietly burned to the ground.  Following Philadelphia’s great fires of 1850 and 1865 commonsense lead to a municipal fire department (unionized eventually I might add) and all new buildings being built henceforth with brick walls and sleight roofs. Building codes were implemented like the introduction of 3-brick-thick fire walls and outlawing the practice of “sistered-beams” running clear through from one townhouse to the next.  My house is a brick and a half deep from my next door neighbors, and the beams are continuous to two house over – but my house is ’grandfathered.’  I can go off on a tear when left un-silenced.  Perhaps you’ve noticed…

I invited the couple, who turned out to be from Japan, inside to see my home and my dollhouses.  They were very sweet and complimentary.  They didn’t say a word about the paths of dust and dog-hair which define my every trail from one room to the next. 

The surprise came when they told me they were on a scouting mission in Philadelphia for a Japanese television station, and so we exchanged cards.  I’m proud to say that I will be filmed by a Japanese TV crew on the morning of Wednesday, April 27th showing-off my home and walking past some of my favorite places in my surrounding neighborhood.  I’ll be like a tour-guide, come ambassador of good-will for my little corner of Philadelphia.

In conclusion:

Someone travels half-way around the world and recognizes how much I belong in my home – enough so as to want to document it – but my own countrymen on Wall Street would like nothing more than to kick me to the curb.  Let them do what they will – but I intend to show our guests from Japan how Philadelphia is indeed the generous “City of Brotherly Love.”  

I’m vacuuming even as I’m writing this post…

Glenn Beck & Keith Olberman to Star in an all Musical Verion of ‘Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?’

I just got back from Walgreens where I purchased Prilosec OTC in both brand-name and generic.  When the clerk asked me why I was getting both, I replied, “One is a gift.“

Life is getting stranger by the minute, and we’re all processing things as best and as fast as we can.  I’m formally scheduled to attend my mortgage conciliation hearing today at 1PM – but I won’t know until as late as 2 hours before as to whether or not the hearing will be postponed (a.k.a. continued) for the 4th time…  I have every intention of showering and having a clean shirt laid out either way.  All my friends are in turmoil of every description – my friends are making me feel fortunate to merely be facing potential homelessness.  But there is one bright, shining light that gives us all ‘Obama-quality-hope’ – Glenn Beck has been reduced by FOX network to ‘lame fuck’ status.  The very thing all thinking people considered of him from his first broadcast filled with raving delusional paranoid utterances.

Lots of people have found themselves out of work in recent days.  Welcome aboard, Glenn.  Hope you didn’t invest your $30,000,000 a year in junk bonds full of bundled mortgages.

There’s a big difference between Glenn Beck being gently phased-out as “in-house-crazy” at FOX News, and Keith Olbermann leaving MSNBC.  Keith, while deliciously nasty, left the station in protest, true to his own integrity after NBC was largely acquired by General Electric – the ‘Dark Invader’ of light bulb companies – with whom Keith would not do business.  On the other hand, Beck is no longer retaining sponsors while failing to make marginal sense even to his fellow inmates who run the FOX News asylum.  They’re phasing Beck out slowly so he doesn’t go postal and shoot-up receptionists and coworkers.  FOX is deluding the poor incoherent soul into believing he’s going to create his own media empire like Oprah Winfrey – only in a pasty, albino ‘dandelion-gone-to-seed’ sorta way.  In truth, Beck is being “transitioned” into a padded cell with his name on the door right above the imaginary word ’”Star’ which only he can see.’  Remember imitation is the highest form of flattery, and both Beck and Oprah have embarrassing scandals at their privately founded universities .  So it’s only natural to soften his landing as he falls from grace by administering him a heavy dose of horse-puckie.   FOX is going to allow him to do a “special” every now and then.  You can look forward to such classic TV extravaganzas as “Fallout for the Follydaze” – A musical filmed in his own personal bunker to salute the end of time.”  Oh rapture…  

But I have other ideas… 

For my money, I’d prefer to see an all-drag musical production of “What Ever Happened to Baby Jane” starring Glenn Beck and Keith Olbermann both chewin‘ up the scenery like the male divas they are.  One as a duplicitous old has-been – and the other could play Blanche the victim (or IS she…?)  Whoever plays either part or gets top billing is up to your own interpretation.  However you look at it – they hate each other just like Bette Davis and Joan Crawford did – and just like the original Bette and Joan themselves – Beck and Olbermann – would be simply breathtaking in drag.  I’d even financially back the show myself if I weren’t in foreclosure.  Perhaps I should sell the house and make them a contract offers?  I bet Olbermann would do it – and turn-in a smash-up performance as well – and while Beck has the requisite level of madness for his/her on-stage presence, he’d never have the courage to pull it off in a dress.  In his mind, it’s all about his own delusions – no audience required.  

But who do we get to write the music and Liberato?  Gilbert and Sullivan are both dead – coincidentally they didn’t care for each other either – perhaps they can be trans-channeled through Fran Leibowitz.  To quote Gilbert and Sullivan, “Whatever blessed thing you hold is made of sliver and of gold, you long for simple pewter. (W.S. Gilbert, The Gondoliers.)  And there goes Glenn Beck’s infamous precious-ore sponsors.  For Glenn’s sake I hope the radioactive-free picnic baskets he hawks for 3-week stays in your own personal bomb shelter continue to be a big seller for him.

I need sleep.

Will My House Still Be My Home Once I’m Broken?

I don’t sleep well.  My stomach is a mess.  My fingernails are gone.  More than one of them are bleeding at the cuticle.  I stopped biting them years ago, but I took the hobby back-up once I found myself in foreclosure.  Facing the prospect of loosing your home after playing by all the rules is beyond description to anyone who has never gone through a living nightmare like this.  To quote Duke Ellington “Why people tear the seams of anyone’s dreams – it’s over my head.”

I have a foreclosure conciliation hearing this coming Thursday, April 7th.  My mortgage company, like an animal of prey has played with my nerves and emotional well-being the same as a cat with a wounded canary.  Over the past 2 years, I’ve sent my mortgage company countless papers, checks and documentation.  They always claim to “never have received them”  or “the papers were lost.”  Or “we never got those checks” – even after my bank supplied copy after copy.  Faxes, emails, ENDLESS interruptive ‘robo’ phone-calls – some of which take place before and after the legal time during which financial harassment calls are allowed by law.  If my mortgage company were an ex-spouse I‘d have filed for and won a restraining order.

Mortgage giants employ collection agencies with shameless ‘prides’ of cubicle-monkeys who make hostile, threatening calls – even espousing blatant lies to play hardball with the single most important investment in a person’s life – their home, (for fun and profit by the way.)  My papers were all filed with the assistance of a major law-firm.  My mortgage company has everything they ever asked me to supply.  But my mortgage company filed for a continuance of my first hearing the day a Daily News reporter contacted them to do an article about my mortgage foreclosure situation.  Another continuance was filed by my mortgage company on or around the time I was contacted about joining a class actions suit through a no-nonsense law firm who strikes fear in the heartless blood-pumps who manipulate Wall Street.

My 3rd conciliation postponement took place when my own lawyer was contacted by my mortgage giant’s legal council asking me to supply tremendously complicated additional information less than 20 hours before my scheduled hearing.  Information which, if they needed it at all, they knew 2 days, 2 weeks or 2 months prior to the most recent court date.  I view it as a hostile stunt.  I’m entitled to my opinion.

When I was a little boy growing up, our family would go visit my Aunt Edna and Uncle Bun’s farm, a beautiful 18th century field-stone farmhouse.  I was very impressed by the fact that my aunt and uncle’s farmhouse was over 200 years old. It made an indelible impression on me.  All my life I’ve wanted to own a 200 year old home.  I love old houses filled with history and a connection to the past.  The house I own (as of this writing) was build in 1812 – which means it’s 199 years old.  Just my luck to face the very real possibility that I might loose the realization of a silly, yet important childhood dream one year short because I don’t know how to lie, cheat, steal or demonstrated reckless disregard for my fellow man.  Apparently to have the simplest definition of the ‘American dream‘, you need to be willing to cut-throats with a ‘winner-takes-all’ attitude. 

I’m not programmed that way.

I’ve lived nearly half of my life in this house – first as a renter, and then as the homeowner.  Most of my time living here I’ve paid my mortgage as a freelance artist – a profession viewed as very suspect by cubicle monkeys.  Yet there has never been a month when I didn’t send-in my mortgage check – early. 

My home is muraled with my own artwork – making it more than a mere real estate investment – it’s an extension of my heart and soul.  It’s my home and a part of who I am.  I know all my neighbors well.  We’re a community who rely on one and other in times of trouble and joy.  There’s really not a price to put on something like that – but Wall Street has – and they’ve done very well doing so.  Doesn’t matter if their profit’s are at the cost of the very fabric of society, stepping on each person like one little insect at a time.  Corporate America are the architects of the downfall of our nation.  There is a big difference between democracy and capitalism – someone should point that out to FOX News.  Try pissing that up a rope while everything you have is hanging in the balance and see who salutes. 

Mortgage companies use psychological torture.  They get inside your mind, and tonight while I toss and turn, grinding my teeth with my head and neck pressed too hard into the pillow – flotillas of sugar-plumb lawyers are scheming on how to exonerate the unconscionable behavior of Wall Street and dash all my hopes.  No one in their sector will be punished – they’ll all just buy a 3rd or 4th vacation home while the market is depressed, and think not of it again.  I’m merely one more penny in the pocket of the people who wield fiduciary treason while calling themselves “Citizens United.”

I highly recommend the following clip from 60 Minutes where the outrage of home foreclosure is far more eloquently put than any of my words could ever hope to convey.


Note: If you are unable to view this video – copy and paste it into your browser.

The 2011 “Blithering Stupidity Awards”

Since when did stupidity become a national point of pride for the American people?  Take for instance false-profit and religious charlatan, Reverend Terry Jones of Florida who threatened to burn the Qu’ran last summer to a great hue and cry from sensible people of all stripes for him to NOT do this.  Well on the 25th of March the fool actually did it, and posted footage on his “Dove Outreach Center” website.  This resulted in thousands of worldwide Muslims protesting and the killing of innocent United Nations workers.  Nice work, Rev. Terry – you’re an idiot and a fool in your own God’s eyes.  Actions like this are not helpful.  I blame Reverend Terry Jones for those deaths, and they are on his conscience – if he has one.  Terry Jones is only one example of the “Blithering Stupidity Awards of 2011.”

But madness seems to be the order of the day during this era everywhere you look.  Donald Trump jumps on the ‘Birther’ bandwagon to stir-up the gullible and drag-out the old myth that Obama wasn’t born in America.  This is a solved issue, put to bed, unimportant in light of the grave situations our nation and our world face and the “Birther-phenomenon” is simply baseless falsehood.  Trump is a media whore who has no intention of disclosing his financial records to open inspection like a genuine candidate for president.  He owns casinos for the love of Pete.  He CAN’T open his books without landing his ass in jail.  His tiresome “Apprentice” TV “reality” programs have not been yet renewed by NBC – and with flagging ratings, suddenly Trump is running for president.  No he’s not, he’s sating his personal craving for attention.  Trump doesn’t have a platform on which to bid for the presidency – he has a wilted-wedge issue topped with cheese and a comb-over.  His most moronic statement came this week when he declared America should stay in Iraq indefinitely and annex them as a 51st state to get their oil to “pay us back” for all we’ve done for them.  WHAT…?!!!  More Blithering Stupidity – give that man an award.

Meanwhile, House Majority Whip, Eric Cantor introduced a bill last week to the House of Representatives called the “Government Shut-down Prevention Act” whereby Cantor (with no Constitutional precedent or knowledge thereof) declared the House of Representatives can introduce this bill and if it is not voted-on by the Senate within a certain time-frame – the bill he introduced to the house becomes law.  No, it does not.  Besides, it’s the Republicans and Tea Party freaks who’re blocking the passage  of the national budget.  A bill becomes law with the House as the first hurdle.   


That same law has to then be approved by BOTH houses of Congress.  If passed in the Senate, that law faces either signing or veto by the president.  School children know this – or at least they used to before Republicans decided slashing educational funding was a smart idea to keep the public stupid and gullible.  Cantor can’t possibly be that ill-informed, but apparently he is.  He can accept the ‘Blithering Stupidity Award’ on behalf of the whole state of Virginia he represents.

This past Tuesday, without permission, anti-abortionists posted a billboard featuring the face of Barack Obama as part of an advertising gimmick – another featuring a black mother and child – again without the permission of the people in the photo – stating that abortion was going to rob the future of our next black president.  Of course the largely white anti-abortionist groups are not stepping forward to adopt or care for unwanted children of any race, color or creed.  They merely latched onto a cause like a dog with a bone, and won’t let it go.  No one thinks abortion is the ideal means of birth control, but those same people are against any form of birth control.  The planet is projected to have widespread food shortages within 25 to 40 years.  And America is fascinated with everything from ‘Kate Plus Eight’ to ‘Nineteen and Counting’ – the reality program about some hicks who can’t stop reproducing because “God wants them to.”  I want to see the memo from “God” telling them to keep getting the necessary fertility drugs required to keep this reproductive madness going.  These people are of the ‘OctoMom’ mind-set, and in serious need of some tube-tying.  Yet another “Blithering Stupidity Award.”

Speaking of abortion, Rick Santorum unfortunately was born.  He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, and recently commented about his theory as to why Social Security’s in financial trouble (it’s not BTW – its solvent for 40 years, just in time for the famine.)  Santorum’s stance blames abortion as being responsible for not providing the requisite number of new taxpayers being introduced into the system to meet the financial needs of an aging population.  OK – where the hell do you even begin with logic like that?  Rick Santorum belongs in a sanitarium where he can harmlessly color with crayons and make hand-print ashtrays.  He’s crazy as a shit-house rat.  Another “Blithering Stupidity Award” engraved with Rick Santorum’s name on the front.

To Rush Limbaugh, Sarah Palin, Newt Gingrich, Michelle Bachmann, and the whole host of FOX news liars who work tireless everyday to lower our collective national IQ – I salute you with a “Blithering Stupidity Award” for each and every one.  Together, you can ruin the entire planet if you put your minds to it.

By the way, the Mineral Management Safety Award was just given to Transocean – (of Deepwater Horizon infamy) for excellence following the worst man-made ecological disaster in the history of the world to which their corporate incompetence and greed was key.  I kid you not – this is April 2nd, not April 1st.  I see another award in store for them too – you guessed it – the “Blithering Stupidity Award” for OUTSTANDING achievement in the destruction of all which sensible people hold dear.

Please feel free to submit your candidates for the “Blithering Stupidity Awards.”  I need a nap.