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Closed – on both ends

I enjoy “close-mindedness.” As a youth, close-mindedness was something that was synonymous with right-wing, conservative, Republicans. Fast forward and today I see those old-foggies do not have a monopoly: the left-wing, liberal, Democrats are equally closed. Shockingly closed. Interesting that the extremes on both poles should have so much in common – maybe that is what extremism is?

I find that many values of my youth have somehow successfully tagged along all these years. The value, the worth of human life was always paramount then, it still is. Back then the only choice was its preservation. While the right-wing seems to have kept that value, the left-wing has decided that those who can choose should choose for those who can’t. Abortion has always been anathema, unconscionable, reprehensible to me; thank God it still is. But those who espouse a liberal agenda have now decided that those who can’t choose should never have that choice. Hitler had his “untermensch”, the Democrat Party today has its “too young” and “too old.” Kermit Gosnell is the new poster-boy.

John Lennon wondered how wonderful it would be if there was nothing to kill or die for. I will not apologize: there is much, much left to kill and die for. Rather John should have used his imagination to ask why human beings still revert to violence when there should be – after some 20,000 years of ‘development’ – viable alternatives. Our toys have changed, our thinking hasn’t.

We, citizens of the USA, have gone to court to redefine “marriage.” The Demos have, once again, missed the point entirely. Be that as it may, the courts gave us Dred Scott; which some say had a bearing on the election of Abraham Lincoln (a Republican). What I can’t, for the life of me, figure out is why any homosexual would want anything to do with what has heretofore been a heterosexual institution. It is, however, telling that the liberals have decided that those who have chosen a particular lifestyle should be imposed on others who have chosen another lifestyle.

I could go on and on, and in these pages, I will….

Oh! Look: something shiny!

We’ve all heard that, while the early bird catches the worm, it is the second mouse who gets the cheese. True, it’s possible (in fact, in this era of couch potatoes, more than likely sure) that the second mouse is just a little bit slower than the other guy – the second mouse would have been first, if he didn’t have to heave his enormous bulk off the sofa. But, I would like to think that the second mouse is the one who thought about the situation, if maybe for only a split second (after all, what kind of cheese is it?), but at least a moment longer than his knee-jerk reaction, unthinking counterpart.

Now, for those of us who believe in God, first and foremost, what makes human beings different from the “brute animal” is our souls. For those that believe Galileo and Copernicus and Ptolemy and a whole host of others were wrong (that the universe doesn’t revolve around something, but rather someone – i.e., themselves), or for those that do believe that Chaos Theory is true, and this is all there is, Alfie, then what ought to make humans different from the beast is the stuff between our ears – not the stuff below our ears.

But, it sure seems that “modern” society has embraced the concept that what really matters is the stuff between our legs. In other words, humans really aren’t any different than mere animals after all. A practical application of “love the one you’re with,” or perhaps “shag anything (emphasis on “thing”) in sight.”

Ok, fine: revel in the moment. Live for today. Turn off what few brain cells haven’t been fried by tv or the internet (talk about opium of the masses! Marx ain’t in it.) What’s left? I mean if all we’re going to do is pursue novelty, then nothing else matters. Nothing.

No thank you.

Most days, I am woefully no more brilliant that some cow out in a field placidly chewing his cud; tho when the clouds do clear above Puget Sound, I do look up to marvel at the stars. I can walk into a library and appreciate what’s there, unlike Jefferson’s dog (was it Jefferson?). Yes, I am conceited enough to think that I can think. Not that what is between my ears defines who I am – any more than what is between my legs. A product of reading Latin and Greek in high school, and enjoying nothing more than a good book (or, The Good Book), I kinda think there’s more to life than what’s for lunch. There’s more to THIS life.

John Lennon famously sang about how wonderful it would be if there was nothing left to die for. While I agree that killing is the product of a Neanderthal mind (with apologies to our ancestors), if there was nothing left to die for, what is left to live for? And, in this world, there is so much to choose from, I sometimes feel like Buridan’s ass. Fortunately, there are seldom absolutely equal alternatives. Seldom, is there more than one thing that is The First Priority. And, never are ALL things equally important.

You wanna just follow the crowd, just react, just do, without thinking? You want to lower yourself to the least common denominator? You go right ahead: I never cared for Velveeta, anyway.

Day of Silence

When it comes to LGBTX (or is that Q?) issues I find that I am so sick-and-tired of having that subject in my face all the time I am very much inclined – no, I find that I am forced – to push back, resist and lashout with every fiber of my being. It is all so very wrong, like saying a person is, or is not, a human being, based on the calendar. Definitely, the “right” to engage in sodomy (ok, so why doesn’t that word fit?) is not even on the same page as the “right” for a woman to decide the child she is carrying is inconvenient, but society now (world-wide) apparently has nothing better to do than keep this nonsense (in the strictest meaning of the word) on the front page.

Recently, three people were instantly killed when two bombs exploded during the Boston Marathon, and a MIT campus policeman who was nowhere near the bomb site was gunned down. What was “newsworthy”? Apparently, one of Boston’s finest was only one of Boston’s finest because he was a homosexual – not because he was trying to aid, comfort and protect the runner who had been blown to the ground by the blast. Do I really think that either the cop, or the runner, asked what the other’s sexual preference was at that moment? So, why should anybody else? I don’t get it: I don’t understand why anybody would write a caption like that.

And, later in the week, a local high school had a day of silence in protest against the silence that accompanies the bullying of people who believe that the only thing that is important about themselves is their sexual preference. Not a day of protest against anyone and everyone who is subject to bullying. Not a day of protest against the exploited and downtrodden. Yeah, on the heels of an act of terrorism that took four lives, a specific group says they are being oppressed for their chosen lifestyle. I suppose the runners and spectators at Boston might have a thing to say about that.

3,000 aborted babies have a Day of Silence every day.

The Mountain

When learning to drive a car, one of those lessons that is very necessary, but takes a very long time to learn – or, at least, it took me a long time – is that of where to look. The eyes dart between too close and too far; too much time spent staring straight ahead and not enuf time looking from side-to-side. And the mirrors? Forgetaboutit! Eventually, thru time and experience, the lucky drivers figure all this out – the drivers that care about being good drivers (very few), not the drivers who never give all this a second thot (most).

And so it is w Life. It takes the lucky ones years to learn where to look, and most of those that merely slog their way thru Life (living one day at a time, completely independent of every day before and after) never do learn where to look. (The truly blessed, or gifted ones seem to be born w this ability.) And so it is w me: I will be (shudder) 59 years old this summer; and it is in this Spring of 2013 that I have finally learned where to look.

Now, while the eyes are looking at the mountain, it is the feet that take the steps and make the journey. The navigator, w the compass and the sextant steers the ship; but the rowers give the skin of their hands to the voyage. One w/o the other means a ship that never reaches its destination.

However, just because the navigator can see the port doesn’t mean the vessel will make the port.

This is where I am at this moment. I am – finally, praise God, not to put too fine a point on it – looking where I need to look. My desitination, my goal, my reason for being, my purpose, is in sight. I know – not merely believe, not guess, not suppose – where I need to go. For the first time in my life, I know my destination. That’s the good news; the bad news is that I must shed a lifetime’s worth of excess baggage – impedimenta.

Given that my father lived till he was 89, I think it reasonable to expect something like 30 more years before I make port (my father’s longevity is as good a crystal ball as any I have at hand).

Either I believe in God, or I don’t. Notice, first, that I said “I” not “we”. While I firmly believe what is true for me is true for all of God’s children, I live in a society that has embraced the concept that I must not interfere while others drown. In fact, the Great Irony is that I will be standing at the Pearly Gates entirely by myself, in front of Christ, and the first question out of His mouth will be “What have you done for me?” – which is simply the cut-to-the-chase version of “Why should I let you in?” I will be standing there, by myself, but if I get there by myself, I don’t deserve to be there. How I keep anyone else from drowning, while it is all I can do to keep from drowning myself is quite beyond me. Perhaps the answer is that to save myself, I must do all that I can to save others first? The corollary is simply that I can’t be saved at all if I don’t participate in the salvation of others. To be Biblical: I must die to live. A very difficult concept for an organism that is hardwired to survive at all costs. That would seem to go against Natural Law, but this is neither the time nor the place for that discussion (even if I was capable of the discussion).

I simply, and literally, don’t know how to help others. Nothing I have done so far has worked; that much is clear – even to me. I wonder if being a “lay contemplative” is my calling? I have no desire to take Holy Orders, even if I wasn’t already very married (as opposed to the first two relationships, in which I was, evidentally, “somewhat,” or “kinda” married). Frankly, the number of orders, or groups of religious is appalling: isn’t there only one True Church?

Anyway, I was specifically invited to join a “Friday night Liturgy of the Hours”; tonight, I had no good reason not to attend. I chose not to. I have agonized over it for about a week and a half. While the invitation was flattering – somebody wants me??? – it is not me, it is not how I am wired. I am not a joiner. I have tried. Oh! how I have tried. I have crashed and burned at every turn. I just am not a people person – however much I wish I was.

In one of those few times in my life when the planets were perfectly aligned, I walked the 45 minutes to St Peter’s, knelt on the basalt stones (“sanpietrini”) in the Square (the building had long since been closed for the day), and prayed a Rosary. Kinda all by myself: there was an Italian boy and girl much too close by; on second thot, they might not have noticed me. I felt compelled to pray. I was w/n walking distance of my own “holy of holies” (albeit it was more of a forced march to get there). And, I exploited that impulse. My only regret is that I didn’t do that more often. BTW, it took nearly two hours to walk back home; ‘course it was uphill all the way.

In fact, I have only ever once sought the company of strangers in my desperation to deal w Life; that was the first year, or so, of living in Tokyo. It would be easy to say that 1990 was completely out of character for me; but it would be more accurate to say that I had no idea at all where to look at that point in my life. If nothing else, here it is, 2013 – something like 23 years later – and I am just now convinced I know where to look. I had plenty of steam back then, just no rudder – my Great Undoing. Tho I hafta say – I just gotta say – at least I had steam, unlike most people I know now.

Of fig trees and teenagers

Luke 13:6-9

And He told this parable: “A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard, and he came seeking fruit on it and found none.  And he said to the vine-dresser, ‘Look, for three years now I have come seeking fruit on this fig tree, and I find none.  Cut it down.  Why should it use up the ground?’  And he answered him, ‘Sir, let it alone this year also, until I dig around it and put on manure.  Then if it should bear fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.’” (ESV)

Yep, that be what I’m thinking.  ‘Cept, I’m thinking about The Resident Teenager, aka Herself.  Yes, we have entered a new phase, that of “I’m the Princess, and you’re the….”  Well ‘manure’ comes to mind.

As usual, good words from the Good Book; dunno if Jesus intended this Parable of the Barren Fig Tree for teenagers; but, if the shoe fits.  So, is the message to have patience?  Or, hope?  Or, lots of fertilizer?  I’m running out of hair on my head to pull out, and since we don’t have a dog, I can’t kick that (‘course the puppy mill next door has about a dozen football dogs that I’d love to use to work on my kicking game).

‘Patience’, to me is just to hunker down, because this, too, shall pass.  No hope for change, none for improvement, progress, relief.  A synonym for ‘endure’.  A Via Dolorosa without the Golgoltha.

‘Hope’?  Why, yes, I do believe in miracles, but it is a poor strategy to depend on them.  True enough that most teenagers grow out of their behaviors (I know I have – or choose to believe I have – and I was one of the most incorrigible teenagers ever).  So, am I merely waiting for the calendar to take this problem off of my hands?  This is just a time thing, or am I waiting for Divine Intervention?  For my part, I pray every day; but I’m starting to feel like Billy Graham on a golf course (“God answers all my prayers, except the ones I make on a golf course.”)

Finally, there is more fertilizer.  Very active approach.  And, I think, self-defeating.  When I was 18 and knew everything, and everybody else hadn’t seen the football since the kickoff, at least I was burning with ambition and enjoyed hard work.  Looking back, I was certainly ballistic in those days (no straight line between then and now), but at least I was moving.  Never satisfied with the status quo, I sprinted to see what was on the top of the next hill.  Yeah, adventure and travel – good stuff.  But, my quest was to prove I was as good as anybody else.  I was not the red-haired step child from the country; or, if I was, at least I was going to pull myself up by my own bootstraps.  Unfortunately, those were also the days of “todai moto kurashi” (pardon my Nihongo) and I missed a lot of daisies.

Since I have lost my sense of humor I guess I am left with patience.  Not a problem staying out of her way – she comes and goes without so much as have an apple or kiss my foot; but I am counting the days until she is scheduled to throw her mortar board in the air (94).  Definitely done throwing money at the problem.

The missing years

No doubt there is a theological reason as to why the Bible is silent on Jesus-as-a-teenager. I’ve always wondered why. Perhaps because we are supposed to focus on His short ministry, and not obsess on how He got there. Maybe it’s because He was a typical teenager? After all, He was completely human….

Assuming He was a typical teenager, it is no wonder the Bible is silent. Is there any worse time of life, for both the teenager and the parental-units? As I remember my teenage years, I can only conclude that I am being paid back now. My mother says I wasn’t that bad; I think she’s sugar-coating it (but then, she raised four others, too).
All I can say now is: “Dear God, deliver me – and my wife and our daughter.”

It is easy enough, from this position of nearly 60 years to anticipate. But, it’s like visualizing what is going to happen, and experiencing it unfold. I’m thinking of the hapless pedestrian standing on the curb as the bus zooms by, hitting a water puddle. You know it’s going to happen, and you’re powerless to avoid, or prevent it.

And then there are those things that are completely unexpected, like having a slightly built eighteen year old girl fight tooth and claw against a much older guy who out-weighs her by a good 70 pounds. Frankly, the Marines and years of karate never taught me how to subdue someone without hurting them. Yes, her bite is almost gone now, thank you very much. What compelled her to “fight for her life” when the only issue was her use of the F-bomb? Where’s her perspective? I am clueless.

Of course that most recent of episodes is more fuel to send her on a trajectory that is completely unpredictable – well, other than not being able to wait to flip me the bird the last time she walks out the door.

It would be nice if my wife and I were on the same page for our daughter’s increasinly disrespectful behavior. But our situation can be summed up as “If it’s her (the wife’s) idea, it’s wonderful; if it’s my idea, it’s terrible.” Merely trying to support my wife is no good either: by the time I have figured out what I am trying to support, I am on the wrong side of the argument. I need to remember Biblical silence.

Will we survive all this? Well, the Mayan calendar came and went, so yeah, I guess so. Will we laugh about it someday? I’ll take bets against that one – I’m betting there won’t be any contact at all as soon as she can leave the house (high school graduation is in four months; I think she’s sticking around for that – I think).

The tragedy is that teenagers are so full of themselves, all they can see is that they know everything, and everybody else knows nothing. I know, I was there, once. And, thank God, I can’t ever be a teenager again (yes, that would be my idea of Hell). But, when the blossoms can be so beautiful, it is so very hard to stand by while someone just cuts them off out of spite. How does one be humble and accepting, and still try to teach self-respect and respect for others? I’m old fashioned enough to believe that saying yes to everything is not the answer.

Maybe the Bible would be more helpful if we had a hint as to what Joseph and Mary did when Jesus was being “fully human” as a teen? If Jesus was the “ideal, perfect” teenager, what was that like? If He was a “helion,” how did Joseph and Mary survive?

Mother of God and St Joseph, pray for us.

Can we borrow your sword?

I feel very strongly that I must mark this event, this departure of Pope Benedict XVI.

I remember very clearly, like it was yesterday and not nearly eight years ago, the death of Pope John Paul II and the cries of “Santo Subito.” Well, JP2 has not yet been canonized, and we are saying good-bye to another pope. My world stopped then, as much as it stopped when the World Trade Center came crashing down; I had to get off the merry-go-round and collect myself. I do not feel the need to absent myself from the world this time, tho I am, more than ever, convinced my world will change more now than it did then.

I am quite sure my observations of the Church have not changed it; but, I have changed. I pray for the better.

In any event, the new pope will have to solve the existing problems using new thinking and new methodologies – it is the old thinking that got us into this mess. He may have to ask St Michael for his sword.

Get out the chainsaw

I am no longer reeling from Pope Benedict’s announcement. In fact, I am arriving at the conclusion that he has done us all a favor by not surprising us with his inevitable departure. I am sad to see him leave the active papacy, but at least this way, I don’t have to mourn his death at the same time.

I am firmly convinced that he knows a whole lot more about all this than I do. Yeah, difficult to be more blatantly obvious than that; but I have this sneaking suspicion that he picked this particular time to step down (or, step aside) for a reason, or a multitude of reasons. Reasons I would hope I would understand and agree with, if I knew them.

And, in the days that have followed his resignation, we have the emergence of the “homoheresy” (to borrow from Fr Oko). So, on top of the so-called “sex scandal” (scandal it certainly is, and sex seems to have played a part, but the cover-up is the story), and official support of organizations that fight Church teaching (you can guess how I’m going to participate in the Bishops’ Annual Appeal), and the essentially unprecedented resignation of the pope, we are now discovering “homosexual cardinals”.

In the 14th Century, the Church became so corrupt that there was, for a significant time, a papal schism. The repercussions are known today as the “Protestant Reformation.” The Church obviously survived that, and, I believe, it will survive this crisis.

However, I can think of no reason it will look very much the same.

Perhaps it is a good thing that this multitude of sins is hitting all at once. Instead of a little infection or two, that have been treated with “aspirin, fluids and call me in the morning,” we have a full-blown amputation on our hands. No bandage now; get out the chainsaw.

Malachite – Chapter 2 – Leaving Home

He stood up, picked up his coat and helmet, and moved farther away from the water. He didn’t register at all that he had been moving up the gravel floor since he had first entered the cavern. Hell of a tide. And he didn’t know what he was doing there; just that staying in the apartment seemed pointless. The water continued to rise. Slowly, but certainly. Oblivious to what the rising water might mean, he moved again. So, if they somehow swam thru the pool – a pool that ‘trained professionals’ said was impassable – they wouldn’t have had dry clothes or food with them when they got outside. Would they? The water continued to rise. Damn! I’m going to get wet even if I don’t want to go swimming!
It was then that he noticed that the small tunnel that he had come thru to get into the cavern had disappeared under the rising water. Too early to panic. But, I should keep that option open.

More time passed – how much, he didn’t know – the water level increased. I wonder how far it goes up? I wonder if I will be alive long enough to find out? How long can I tread water? He grabbed his coat and held it close, though he didn’t know why.

When the water level reached his waist, it occurred to him that it was not particularly cold. In fact, it was warmer than when he first got there. So, how hot does this get? He had to release his coat to scull the water with his arms, for the rising water had lifted him off the floor of the cavern.

He had stayed active his entire life, just for the joy of feeling good – or, at least feeling better than everyone else who complained about how bad they felt. The thought that all those hours of sweat might have been a waste crossed his mind.

Probably a little late to be looking around for a way out? But, he looked around anyway. Eventually, he looked up. Huh? A small opening in the ceiling was appearing. Had to pretty much be right under it to see it, and it was glowing brighter and brighter. Some kind of phosphorescence? He had that effect on rocks.

Mal’s watery prison was getting smaller and smaller. Unfortunately, the hole that apparently penetrated through the rock would not allow any air to be trapped while he waited for the water level to recede. Whether or not he could have stayed afloat that long was a question he never got around to asking. He paddled over to it and looked up into darkness. I wonder if I will have the arm strength to climb? Climb to where? Well, it’s not like I have a choice…now.

Soon he was in the vertical shaft. He stretched out his arms. The shaft was wide enough he couldn’t touch opposite sides. He was going up; that he could tell by having to reach out for new hand-holds. In fact, it seemed that he was rising up in the shaft faster and faster; barely able to keep his nose above water. So, is this a one-way ticket? No, wait: Jaz came back, didn’t she? But, did she come back in the same way? What would she have done, abseil? Without ropes? And what happened to Jade? Jaz didn’t seem to be the brightest person he’d ever met – although she figured out a way to use the pool to get out. Evidently. If she wasn’t making the whole story up, that is.

He stopped, and just seemed to float; the sensation of going up was replaced by one of hovering. The rock walls had stopped glowing. Yes, he was sure of that. Just hanging there was a bit unsettling. Not so much because it was effortless, but because there was no feedback: no footsteps, no sound, nothing to touch to give his brain information. It was frightening because he was so absolutely out of control.

But, he hadn’t stopped moving. True, he was no longer going up; of that he was certain. Yes, he was certain, wasn’t he? Now, he was being carried horizontally by the warm water. And much more gently. Yes, his boots were still on his feet; his coat just a memory. Helmet? What helmet? He relaxed. Then tightened-up again. Perhaps because he feared that his vertical flight could have instantly changed from up to down. Though why he no longer feared that this watery medium would suddenly cease to exist, he didn’t understand. Paranoid? Yeah. Probably afraid of my own shadow, if I could see it. But, at the same time, somehow this felt better. At least it was less turbulent, more peaceful. Floating on his back, at least he could look around, up even. No clues. It was as dark looking up as it was looking anywhere else. Would be nice to have the light on my helmet about now. He was used to the dark, he grew up in the dark. But this dark was different. This whole thing was different. Very different. Too different.

That’s when he heard a very low roar, presumably at some distance. But then again, “distance” had very little meaning when you have no visual clues. A feeling of moving, but how fast meant little when you had no way to measure, no way to gage how fast.

His breathing had slowed. Moving horizontally was less traumatic than moving vertically. But still, no idea where he was moving to. Very sure he was moving further and further away from home, however. Moving somewhere he had never been.

The roar was getting louder. His clothes had trapped some air and helped to keep him afloat. He was on his back, his legs extended, ankles crossed, his arms folded across his chest, looking straight up and seeing nothing. He was relaxing and that was dangerous: complacency kills. If not from falling asleep – for he was tired – then from making mental errors. Yes, errors in judgment could kill. Something else to be sure of. He had to keep his wits about him. Fine: wide awake, ready for anything. Knowing nothing. Pretty much the story of my life.

And that’s when the roar became deafening and the bottom dropped out. Simultaneously, the roar became painfully loud and he was falling. The water that had carried him up and gently bore him along now violently pounded him down.

He was fighting to breathe, but it felt like he was underwater. Or, almost. Not quite completely submerged; but every breath brought water into his nose and mouth. He flailed. He kicked. His fingers opened and closed on the water, reaching for anything, grasping nothing. He fell a long time.

Suddenly, he was very definitely completely under water and that wasn’t good. He kicked. Harder. He grabbed at the water. He knew this underwater feeling, and he knew he needed to find air. He fought panic as much as he fought the water. Panic meant death. Of course, to be under water too long also meant death.

He could hear the roar again, and it was diminishing. He also discovered he was breathing. When had he surfaced? He took deep breaths. Yes, he was breathing. But this air was different. It smelled different. Or was that the water he was smelling? He didn’t feel like he was falling, which was good. Was he in an underground river that he didn’t know? There were no clues. It was still just as dark as it could be. Or was it?

No, it wasn’t quite that dark. Not black, not the complete absence of light; more of a gray, a really dark gray. Looking up, up seemed lighter. If he was in a cave, it was a huge cave, the likes of which he had never been in.

He was tired. Physically exhausted. The adrenaline having served its purpose left him. He needed to get out of the water and to something solid, and that probably meant swimming across the current. Swimming with the current, in a river, would never get him to someplace where he could rest, catch his breath, and begin to figure out what had happened. Swimming against the current was a fool’s errand. He rolled over on his stomach and began a breaststroke. Slow and easy, for he had no idea how far away something to hang onto would be.

Looking up, the total darkness was now a layered palette of cobalt blue-to-gray, a uniform gray. His strokes became slower. This, whatever this was, was too big to be underground. Wasn’t it? There couldn’t possibly be a cavern this size. Couldn’t possibly. He had to be on the surface. Who you tryin’ to convince? On the surface? On Top?

There was now a jagged horizontal line where light gray met black. A black darkness that was now not quite as dark as it had been. Not as black as he was used to.

He was on top! He had made it to the surface! Rocks found his boots. Thank God I kept my boots on – and they stayed on! He was able to stand and walk. Using his arms to swim, he began to walk against the ebbing water. Everything got lighter and lighter. He could see the water’s edge. He could see something besides water in front of him. He looked over his shoulder to see a very large river behind him.

Dawn was giving way to day before it struck him that the sun – that unbelievably bright light that would first blind him, then burn him – was rising over the horizon. He had never seen the sun before. No one he knew had ever actually seen the sun. He had read about it; everyone had read about it. Many dreamed of seeing it. But, if he didn’t find shelter quickly, it would kill him – slowly. Generations of living underground had made their eyes very sensitive to low light; and completely unsuitable to the intensity of the raw, unfiltered sunlight On Top. Having spent his entire life underground, he was on the surface, for the first time. Ever.

The warming sun began to make his skin itch. He was already trying to shield his eyes. Gotta find shelter, or I’m gonna fry. Probably fry anyway – one way or another. His coat was a forgotten memory; his shirt and pants were thin and frayed. Yeah, gonna fry.

Obama’s Untermenshen

Well, Adolf Hitler had his, why can’t Barak Obama have his? ‘Course, Ol’ Adolf was able to murder “only” about 6 million or so “subhumans”; and his good friend Uncle Joe Stalin, “only” another 20 or so million; and who can forget Mao and his untold? But, we Americans, home of unalienable rights have managed to make those guys look like Boy Scouts (with apologies to the Boy Scouts); we have, in the 40 years since the Supreme Court managed to one-up their reprehensible Dred Scott ruling with Roe v Wade, murdered in excess of 50 million. 50 million human beings who are somehow judged as being not worthy of any rights at all; rather, a Untermenshen conclusion, wouldn’t you say?

And if that wasn’t enough (yes Virginia, the hits just keep on comin’), we Americans use taxpayer dollars to fund abortion. Yeah, yeah, I know: the dollar doesn’t buy as much as it used to. But, seriously: what is the difference between the Big Three and THE BIG ONE? Sure, Obama didn’t single-handedly make Roe v Wade the law of the land, but neither did Hitler, Stalin and Mao – they all had their flunkies.

50 million human beings, murdered, before they ever saw the light of day. Why? Well, for the most part, because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time; i.e., they were inconvenient. Damn! That brings us right back to the Big Three, oops, I mean the Big Four.

America, you embarrass me.