Category Archives: Humor

It’s Just Not Funny Any More

My sense of humor has gotten me through the most difficult of times.  Illness.  Death.  George W.

It got me through the early days of Donald Trump’s candidacy — because after all his is a walking joke, isn’t he?

Every one of this progressively outrageous actions has left me sputtering.  But I’ve always found a thread, although rarely enough for a blog post lately.

But it’s just not funny any more.

This morning, GOP Candidate for President of the United States called upon Russia to hack Democratic Candidate for President and former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton’s email.  He encouraged them to do so.  He sanctioned a foreign government — one that the United States has had challenging relations with since the Russian Revolution in 1917.

As reported by the New York Times, the man we cannot let become president said:

“Russia, if you’re listening, I hope you’re able to find the 30,000 emails that are missing,” Mr. Trump said, staring directly into the cameras. “I think you will probably be rewarded mightily by our press.”

Elections Matter.  This one more than most.

Volunteer.  Donate.  Convince everyone you know to vote for Hillary Clinton.

This man cannot become our president.

 

 

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Wow!

Flotus

Meme courtesy of CrooksandLiars.com

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Sorry Guys

I’m watching Donald Trump’s acceptance speech.  And I’m finding it hard to concentrate. 

All I can focus on is those little fingers. 

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It Actually IS a GOP Sh*t Storm

We all knew it would be a shit storm when the GOP got together to nominate Donald Trump in Cleveland.  But even I didn’t think it would actually turn into a a convention hall where folks would be running for the bathrooms instead of the exits.

Apparently, though, they are.  Because the GOP doesn’t just have a shitty candidate, they have norovirus:

The virus can be caught through contact from infected people or surfaces, or through consuming contaminated food or water. Norovirus inflames the stomach, the intestines, or both. Symptoms include stomach pain, nausea, diarrhea and vomiting.  (Washington Post)

 

Of course, their candidate has been producing shit from his mouth and making the rest of the world vomit and crap their pants in fear since he announced he was running last year.  And then again each time he speaks.

But with the norovirus taking hold of the delegates, I’m wondering if Mr. Trump needs a new form of transportation to make sure those delegates fill the convention hall to listen to the crazy line up of misogynists, racists and fear mongers.

Don’t you think that they should be riding in this fine vehicle:

Stool bus from father kane

Picture Credit:  Father Kaine’s The Last of the Milleniums.  Where else?  He finds the best things.

Elections matter. 

Register. 

Vote. 

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No Balls

If this isn’t a metaphor for today’s GOP, I don’t know what is.

Balls are not allowed at next week’s GOP convention where the politicians who haven’t had the balls to stand up to Little Fingers Don until now will nominate him to be their candidate for President of the FUCKING UNITED STATES!

tennis-balls-1932897

Image from thumbs.dreamtime.com

Of course, in another expected metaphor, these same folks responded to the latest mass shooting of police officers in Dallas by adding language stating opposition to restricting magazine capacity & banning AR-15 rifles. There was no debate.

Here.  I’ll help you pack.  Other things that you can’t bring to the GOP convention (since I know you’re going) include:  knives of all sorts, lumber, coolers and cots.  Num chucks have to be left in the hotel room, as do your fireworks.

I did not notice rotten tomatoes on the list, so stock up!  There will be a run on them in Cleveland, I’m sure.

But because Ohio is an “open-carry” state, you can bring guns.

Guns guns and more guns

What could be better than drunk GOP ammosexuals with their guns?  Image credit epano.com

What could possibly go wrong?

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I want to take away your guns

Yup. I want them too.

waltbox

The one and only purpose of guns is to kill.

The desire to own guns, and the notion that owning them is some inalienable right of Americans, points to a sickness. The symptoms have been made clear.

I don’t wish to offend anyone who thinks differently, but I can’t imagine a greater offense than the gun violence we’ve seen this year, and the refusal of some to change our laws regulating ownership.

You may say that a law restricting gun ownership is the first step towards taking away your guns.

I hope it is.

Because I want to take away your guns.

You may be a responsible gun owner.

I don’t fucking care.

You feed the monster that is more powerful than Black Lives Matter, more deadly than White Cops, more blind than “Justice.” You feed The NRA, and the business of making money selling guns.

And my daughters may…

View original post 22 more words

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Generally Speaking Redux

Maybe I’ve mentioned once or twice that my brother, Fred, was a wonderful big brother.  I really don’t exaggerate.  If  you could have made up the perfect big brother, it would have been Fred.  But you probably would have given him a better name.

Fred is 3 years older than me.  And he played with me all the time.  He didn’t beat me up.  He wasn’t mean.  He let me tag along wherever he went.

He actually seemed to enjoy my company, too.  Or at least, it never occurred to me that he might not be enjoying it.  Perhaps I was late in picking up some social clues.  Anyway, I can honestly not remember Fred ever hurting me, or setting me up to fail, or doing any mean big brother things to me.

He was my hero.  When we tucked towels into our jammies and jumped off the back of the couch, I was not just pretending Fred was Superman.  He was Superman.  Of course I also thought that our dog, Tip, was SuperDog when we called him “Kripto,” tucked a dishtowel into his collar and pushed him off the back of the couch.

It was during the late 1950s and early 60s; we saw Westerns on TV and in the movies — The Lone Ranger, Branded, How the West Was Won, and more.  There were a lot of shoot outs at our house, too, because that’s what we played most of the time.   Fred invented great games for us.  Cowboys and Indians, gun fights, sheriff and posse.

Fred was always the hero.  Me?

I was the bad guy who got outgunned and had to keel over and die.

I was the outlaw brought to justice by the handsome sheriff.

I was the squaw who had to skin and cook the deer.

I always lost.

I felt good that at least I had a better part than Tip.  Tip was the deer, and Fred and I would chase him around pretending to shoot him with arrows.  Fred and his friends once caught Tip and tied him onto our broom and carried him Indian-style, to roast over our pretend fire.  Tip escaped and didn’t want to play Indian for a week or so.  We did not eat him.

Tip was much less cooperative for some reason. (Google Image)

Tip was much less cooperative for some reason. (Google Image)

Losing wasn’t a condition for Fred to play with me, but it was reality.  Fred always won.  He was always first, fastest, bravest.  He was always the hero.

Fred’s pretend horse, Thunder, was faster than my horse, Lightning, even after Fred discovered that in real life lightning comes first.  Fred showed me pictures of lightning in “the big dictionary” – a huge reference book we loved to look at.  It had the coolest pictures and lots of words we couldn’t read.  If something was in the big dictionary, it was fact.  Period.  “In real life,” Fred said, pointing to a picture of a scary bolt in a stormy sky, “Lightning is faster than thunder.  But not with horses.”

I really didn’t mind.  If Fred’s horse was slightly faster than mine, that was OK.  We were a team.

But one day when Fred wanted to play Cowboys and Indians, I’d had enough of losing.  Maybe I was growing up.

“I wanna be the cowboy,” I insisted.  “You always get to be the cowboy.  I always get shot.”

“OK,” Fred said.  He didn’t argue or try to convince me to be the Indian.  I should have been suspicious.  But I’ve always trusted Fred completely.  I knew he would never be mean to me.

“OK,” said Fred, again, thinking up a new game.  “You can be a General!  I’ll be an Indian, ummmm, I’ll be called Crazy Horse.”

“OK!” I said, excitedly.  A General!  I wasn’t just cowboy.  I was gonna be a general!

I blew my bugle, called my troops to arms.  My imaginary troops and I rode off on our stallions to fight the Injuns.

I blew my bugle again and my (pretend) troops surrounded me.  We heard Indian war whoops from Fred and his Indian braves.  Fred/Crazy Horse and his braves came at me, surrounding me and my men on all sides.  But I wasn’t worried.  I was a general.  And even at that age, I knew that the cowboys always win.

And then Fred shot me.

I did not flinch.  I did not fall.  I did not succumb to my wounds.  I screamed bloody murder:

“I’m the cowboy!  You can’t shoot me!

I’M THE GENERAL!

Fred calmed me down and took me by the hand over to the big dictionary.  He turned the pages and showed me a picture of a general in a cowboy hat with blond curls.  He looked just like me.  Except for the mustache (mine grew in many years later).

Thanks a lot, Google

Thanks a lot, Google

George Armstrong Custer.

“That’s General Custer,” Fred said.  “Crazy Horse killed him.  Or Sitting Bull did.  Some Indian killed him at the battle of Little Bighorn.  The Sioux Indians surrounded General Custer and his men and killed them.”

I didn't have a chance

I didn’t have a chance

If it was in a book, in the big dictionary, well then,  I had to die.  It was right there in black and white with a color picture.  It was my fate.

We went back over to the battlefield (the front hall) and started the battle again.  Again, I blew my bugle and rallied my troops into a circle around me.  Again, the Indians pressed forward, surrounded us.

Again, General Custer got shot.  And this time he/I was brave.  I clutched my heart, tossed my curls and fell dead.

*     *     *

I owe my devotion to the underdog and my tendency to look everything up to my big brother, who is still wonderful.  Today, I will be visiting my big brother/hero, coincidentally, so I decided to re-run this post.

Because today,  June 25th is the 140th Anniversary of the Battle of Little Bighorn.

And speaking once more as General Custer, I deserved exactly what I got.

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