Eww boy. The lid has been blown and Obama has shown his birth certificate. I used my magnifying glass to read the fine print. Birthplace: Honolulu, Hawaii. According to my recollection from Miss James’ history class, which I attended when I wasn’t asleep, Hawaii was part of the United States by the time his mother exited from the delivery room.
What next, o fair tea partiers? For a while, I thought that Donald Trump was a mole designed to lead the Democrats to a landslide no matter who they nominate or how the economy is doing. And here are the reasons why:
Only a nit or a mole would pick on someone’s birthplace as a kick off to his (or her) election when there are other things to worry about, like say, the economy, unemployment, immigration and who’s going to win on Dancing with the Stars.
And only a mole would then go one step further and question Obama’s educational credentials. When the aspiring presidential candidate came up with a dig on how Obama got into school, my newly installed mole alarm went off. For unless you are a Kennedy, or Columbia and Harvard went on an equal opportunity campaign, a candidate has to be smarter than the average bear to get into any of those schools. Even getting a janitorial job there probably requires a near Mensa membership. Not only does a being have to get in, but he has to figure out how to graduate and get out.
Even if Obama’s grades were bad, he’s not alone. Einstein was first thought to be retarded. Besides, the Donald isn’t one to talk as he allegedly punched out a teacher during the halcyon days of his youth. For this reason, I wouldn’t want to do business with him especially with anything involving beams, girders cranes or anything that swings. Given his logic, a person could wind up wearing cement shoes in the bottom of a swimming pool after a business transaction gone wrong.
Obama may not be the best president we ever had, and if his face winds up on Mt. Rushmore, I’m going to eat my hat, but anyone who can go from relative obscurity to the highest office in the world is certainly no dummy, either.
For all I know, maybe someone in the Democratic camp put the Donald and the rest of those tea partiers up to this.
I have worked in a school system and have dealt with all sorts of criminal types, from our clients to others associated with the teaching profession and beyond, so I don’t frighten that easily.
But lately there have been some things that have been frightening related to our ongoing war on drugs. I listen to the radio. I am on Facebook, so I have some idea as to what’s going on (except when it comes to sports where my knowledge is that of the average tomato’s), and I know that drugs have been considered cool, hip and chic, except, of course, to recovering addicts. To them they are like poison.
I also know that the US of A is one of the biggest consumers of drugs. Even though I was a child of the seventies, I never was that enamored by the stuff. And at the ripe old age of seventeen, I knew that it would only mask any problems caused by boredom, pimples and the pain of a love gone south temporarily. So even then I knew it wasn’t worth the bother.
The one time I tried smoking dope was at the beach at night with two guys, one of the school potheads and his friend. We pulled up to the beach. They pulled out a joint and passed it around. I didn’t inhale because I don’t smoke to begin with. We got back in the car and passed the police who were there checking on law and order and probably teenagers like us.
It was my first and last encounter with street drugs because I swore off them after that. I never was that much into booze, either, and about the only wine I drink is Mogen David or Manischewitz because they are extra sweet and tasty.
So I am a teetotaler. I like organic sheets and things and people that aren’t toxic. Yet even I, a person with a background in educational institutions, found the news so shocking.
The online news source reported not only on the drug epidemic in our country but about how our country has been invaded by the Mexican drug cartels. Coming in on the tail of the illegal immigrants, who are also allowed to roam freely around here, they have been forcing others to grow and harvest the stuff on our land before packaging and selling it back to our brilliant ones. They are so well armed that even the feds are afraid of them, though they are often armed with weapons made in the good old US of A.
Their tactics to get others to comply is straight out of the annals of the Marquis de Sade and include beheadings, shootings and torture, the usual things for them.
The question is what to do about it before our whole country goes up in smoke after being turned into one giant barrio or burrito, depending on how you look at it.
We need to stop making so nicety-nice to the Mexican drug cartels like Sinaloa. I know the overly liberal don’t believe in capitol punishment. But what else are we supposed to do with those who make Gaddhafi look like the Tooth Fairy? If they want to take care of them and support them in our jails, let them only on their own dime. But there are other things I want to do with my money, like use it to build roads, hospitals and libraries, supporting food banks and go shopping.
For if we aren’t careful, our next president is going to be someone like Bob Marley and our new flag is going to be the same as Mexico’s only with marijuana leaves sewn into the center.
Hello out there in Reader Land,
Several days ago in a fit of food, diet frenzy or Venus in retrograde, or something, I do not know, I opined about Dr. Abravanel and the Body Type Book.
I said that that was going to be my first and last PSA. Well, I lied. It was not an intentional one, but something came up and I am going to have to do another one all over again.
But if it can save one life, then what the hell, as I always say. This one is a call to buy pet insurance, or any other kind of insurance for any kind of foreseeable disaster known in the free world.
Because I have pets, I bought pet insurance. And because I am neurotic, I have every other kind of insurance known to mankind. I once even bought organ transplant insurance not only because I liked the salesman but because you never know. Even thought I am planning on keeping everything in about the same position as where it started out, should something head south then I will be covered for that one, too.
The pet insurance, came in handy and more than paid for itself when my dog knocked back a canister of raisins. It happened after I cleaned the house for Passover and put an open canister of raisins in a bag in the closet. It’s not the only thing that can be fatal to dogs. Grapes, chocolate, onions and garlic can also have the same effect on them.
The raisin scent must have been too much for him, because a few hours later, he helped himself to a few cups full. Fortunately, I came home and found him with his nose in the can and called the after hours vet who told me that my window of opportunity was small and to get him down there right away.
They held him overnight, and part of the next day, and the bill came out to around $1,200.00. Ordinarily, I would have felt like committing Harry Carry over such an amount or not eating for the next two weeks. But because I have insurance, I didn’t get as faint as I might have. The dog, however, is just fine.
It pays to be prepared for any incoming disaster by having working flashlights with batteries that haven’t corroded, granola bars that haven’t passed their expiration date, reasonable looking underwear, pet insurance and some more. Thank you, amen, and over and out.
I like seeing a person’s face during a conversation, unless it’s by phone because then there’s no way around it, and I don’t have Skype.
And if I were a police officer writing tickets, I’d want to see the person’s face as there are few things more disgruntling than talking to a pair of eyes beneath enough yards of fabric to drape the Sistine Chapel. Such is the case with a Muslim woman’s face and body covering called a “niqab,” which they wear as a sign of modesty, though it has come under question lately and France has enacted what amounts to an anti-niqab law.
No one would care had the Muslims been a peace loving lot. And in spite of what they say their religion says, some of them haven’t done some very peace loving things. Let’s just put it like this: No one ever thought that Bob Dylan and Arlo Guthrie were singing about them when they were singing all those songs in the sixties and seventies. And no one would think so today.
After all, how many peace-loving lots blow others up and destroy, maim and kill with such carefree abandon? Though like love, I guess we all have our own version of what peace means and how to get there. Theirs seems to be by way of blowing up and clearing out the overgrown weeds and brush (the infidels) to make way for the vegetation and good stuff (them).
And now the French have said “alors,” “enough” and have started to take action by outlawing the veils in public.
Other religious groups have their dress codes, too. Orthodox Jewish men wear shtreimels (fur hats) but no one ever hears about them carrying dynamite around in them, though there might be a matzah crumb or two riding on them on occasion. And no one ever hears about any Orthodox Jewish women harboring any explosives or pepper spray in their wigs and scarves, which married women wear for modesty’s sake. So no one tries creating any laws.
Last month, a policeman in England stopped a woman with a niqab for a traffic violation. Not too thrilled about it, she threatened to report him, though he wrote the ticket anyway. She later claimed that he’d assaulted her and tried to lift her veil to get a glance at her face. What she didn’t know was the whole encounter had been taped from a camera on his dashboard, so the she looked rather foolish when she showed up in court and he presented the evidence. If he didn’t have the tape, it could have spelled the end of his career as well.
Not willing to leave well enough alone, her lawyer then said it was a case of mistaken identity since he couldn’t see her under the veil. The judge didn’t buy it and she was sentenced to jail and had to pay a fine.
Once the law was enacted in France, some Muslim women claimed that the government was restricting their movement and trammeled on down to City Hall. They were arrested and now one of them is going to take it to a European court, which is either comprised of other Muslims or afraid of them to begin with.
A peace loving lot? If they think you’re on the same side of the niqab as they are, I suppose.
Sometimes you have to perform a public service. Today is my day. This one is about body type diets, healthy eating and how you metabolize food.
According to Dr. Abravanel, there are four major ways for women, though it is three for men because they don’t have gonads.
Type One: The Thyroid Type.
This type mainly metabolizes food via the thyroid gland while leaving the other glands to fend for themselves.
You will know you are a thyroid type if:
you love to snack and nosh
you have never met a carbohydrate that you didn’t like.
and if you resemble a pair walking down the street or have developed an unsightly spare time.
And most people who have had thyroid dysfunctions are thyroid types.
Type Two: The Adrenal Type.
You will know you are an adrenal type if:
You are a workaholic
You crave meat and salts and love your liquor
You like your Manhattans neat and your bourbon straight up among other liquors, and
You have a square, muscular frame but little by way of a good, solid bottom
Type Three: The Pituitary Type
This type got its name from being the gland at the base of the brain. You are a pituitary type if:
You crave dairy products. In fact, where most people consider cottage cheese a diet food, it falls on your top ten list of all time wonderful foods.
Your head is too big for your body,
You are eternally young looking, and
Your bulges don’t discriminate but show up all over your body.
Type Four: The gonadal Type
It is only about women only because men are not blessed with gonads
Look for the following clues:
You never met a vat of butter, sauce, cream or a French fry that you didn’t like.
You hate eating breakfast but love eating late a night
And you have extra junk in your trunk.
The best way out is to eat healthy enough to tweak your other glands, exercise and do the opposite of what you’ve been doing. For example, if you are a Gonadal Type, then you need to eat breakfast though not with the foods you crave, but with a single, whole plum. If you are a Thyroid Type, then you need to stop the nosh, go x-nay on the sweets and load up on the proteins and vegetables. And if you are an Adrenal Type, then you need to start the nosh and stop lifting weights and take up yoga or ballet.
It’s all about balance, kiddos. But then, isn’t life once you really get down to it? Or you could just go out and buy “Dr. Abravanel’s Body Type and Diet Book.”
Thank you, amen, over and out. End of PSA.
There are times when a woman has to step in for Mother Nature to avoid ending up on the “Don’t” pages of a fashion spread. Usually it’s a minix fix here and there and amounts to no more than Crest White Strips and a box of Miss Clairol hair dye. Then there are those who engage in a tug-of-war with her while she tugs and pulls back because, after all, you can’t really fool her. This is the case with Cindy Jackson, who with fifty-two plastic surgeries has earned a place in the Guinness Book of Records and if nothing else, has written a book about all this and has a $750.00 an hour plastic surgery consultant. Jackson may be vain, but she’s no dummy. She’s also a member of Mensa.
Her quest for the Holy Grail of beauty started with a childhood, where she felt unattractive and unloved, and an inheritance from her father when she was in her early thirties. Fifty-two operations later, there isn’t a part of her body that hasn’t been remolded, re-sculpted or redone. Even the inside of her knees have had some work after she thought they were hitting a little too close when she walked. It might have been a millimeter or two, but it was enough to make her notice and her surgeon to agree. Her latest procedure was on her hands because they were looking a little too weather-beaten as most people’s would at 55.
I wouldn’t have continued tussling with myself like that because you never know when something’s going to come in handy. When it comes to my hands, for example, I’d start wondering what would happen if I needed a transfusion and the doctor had trouble finding a vein underneath all those injections and collagen. But maybe I’m not someone to ask because I’m always ready for an emergency and have bought just about every insurance on the market, including an organ transplant policy, that I’ll get a refund on if I keep everything, and heath insurance for my dogs.
Either way, had that been me, I would have skipped most of those surgeries and gone for therapy instead. It probably would have cost about the same, and there would have been no time inside a recovery room.
Maybe that’s why one of the most memorable people I ever met was someone who had gray hair at twenty and was okay with that. Her outlook on life was that every line, gray hair and every wrinkle were like metals of honor for a life well lived.
Another one is a grandmother whose salt and pepper hair is always perfectly coiffed, whose knit pantsuits always match and who adorns every outfit with jewelry and her face with just the right amount of make up. She carries herself with such grace and dignity, she almost makes others look forward to aging, if only they could be like her.
Besides, even the best plastic surgeons can’t undo the crapshoot called genetics. The best they can usually do is try for passable or attractive if the bone structure isn’t there to begin with. Take supermodel Laetitia Casta who is so beautiful that someone once said that looking her could make anyone believe in a Supreme Being. In her case, it’s as if the celestial beings lined up and bestowed heaping measures of gorgeousness and otherworldliness on her. The late Elizabeth Taylor also fell in that category.
I’m of the club that I want to hold onto my looks as long as I can, but I’ll have to have been swiped over the head with a two-by-four before getting fifty-two procedures. In the end, I want to be somewhere between the woman with the wrinkles and the grandmother with the grace and dignity. Though underneath it all, they really are one and the same.
Some say that UFO’s like to visit our planet whenever there’s a disaster. Maybe they show up at rush hour or during car accidents. I think I’ve seen some in their cars. Some say that they visit just to meander. My neighbor, who appeared eccentric, though sober, said that he saw one hovering around the hospital across the street.
An online report said that even the royal family has an interest as well. One photo showed a field in England that had lots of large circles in it, and the caption said that Queen Elizabeth was interested in how they got there. And since they apparently show up for major events, some in the royal family are supposedly expecting them at the end of the month for the royal wedding.
In that case, the aliens must spend a lot of time in the Middle East. Some may even be in those crowds for all I know. The latest incident, aside from the daily bombings, burnings, looting and riots, is last week’s murder of three UN workers and four guards in Afghanistan in retaliation for a Florida pastor burning a Koran.
The Afghanis had a right to be upset. Most people would have been had someone desecrated their holy book. But these guys will use any excuse to take offense and torch, ransack, loot and kill.
Not only shocking is how the mob expressed themselves but the official reaction to the murders. In response to the burning of the Quran, Staffan De Mistura, the top U.N. envoy in Afghanistan said that “Freedom of speech does not mean the right of offending culture, religion or traditions.” Prime Minister Karazi merely condemned the burning of the Muslim book.
It’s enough to give even an alien an ulcer.