” Is 2022 the New 1939 ?”


Adolf Putin

Just when we thought the world (except the middle east) had reached a civilized status, Russia’s “Thug For Life,” Putin, pulls a full-blown Hitler and invades the sovereign nation of Ukraine. So, in many ways, Europe in 2022 looks much like it did in 1939.

Biden stands behind his podium, stares at the camera with his best beady-eyed squint, and tells his countrymen that his sanctions will make Putin pay dearly. Yep, he continues to buy oil from Russia instead of opening a few pipelines in America. How about them sanctions, Joe? No more Wisconsin cheese and Napa wine for old Pooty Poot.

“Ras-Putin The Crazed” sits in his golden chair and tells the world if we interfere with his plans, we will “suffer his wrath like the world has never seen before.” Putin means business. Why? Because the man has an Xbox controller tied into thousands of Nukes and has lost his shit, and no one in Russia has the balls to lock him in the basement. That steely-eyed look on Biden’s face was likely caused by a massive Mexican food poopy diaper or Kamala crouching under the podium adjusting his catheter.

Where in the world is NATO? Half of those countries, over decades, have experienced the Communist boot on their throat. One can imagine they are sitting in front of their televisions texting each other, “Whew..glad it’s them and not us.” Another coterie of gutless men. Ukraine is going down in flames, and the only thing missing is the internment camps and boxcars.

Those dearly beloved hearts in Hollywood are pitching in and doing their part; haven’t they always been there for the world in times of crisis? They send Sean Penn, “the has-been third rate actor,” to Ukraine. He’s going to have a meaningful conversation with Putin, if he can get to Moscow, alive. They should have sent Denzel Washington; at least he would take a few dozen Commies with him as he went down. Old Dirty Harry himself, Clint Eastwood, is sitting on his patio, polishing his 44 Magnum and mumbling, ” let me at the Putin pussy prick, I’ll kick his Russki ass.” Yep, I believe Clint would.

All kidding and smart-assed comments aside, we need to pray that Ukraine and its good people survive this onslaught of evil. I can’t put the finger on precisely what we citizens can do, but someone needs to grab his crotch, tap the dirt off of the spikes and step up to the plate.

Things That Make You Wonder, WTH?


Is it just me, or have you noticed how old Bill Clinton looks these days, and he’s younger than Donald Trump? Could it be the baggage he is married to? Just saying he looks like he has died and been dug up a few times.

I have a feeling that AOC’s mother may have had a one-night stand with Fidel Castro on one of those girls’ only weekends.

This new bombshell regarding the DNC and Hillary spying on a presidential candidate and then president goes deeper than Watergate. Yet, our national news media is crickets and lightning bugs on the crime of the century. Where are Bernstein and Woodward? Those two guys won an Oscar and the Nobel Prize for destroying Nixon, so why are they so quiet now? I think Forest Gump did a better job.

After the half-time show at the Super football thang, I now consider American music completely dead. Rap is not music, and no one can pinpoint what it actually is, not even the rapper dudes. The decline of civilization comes to mind.

Vlad Putin will take Ukraine, and there is nothing anyone can do about it. The US is weak, Europe is weaker, and NATO has outlived its usefulness and purpose. Ole Puttie Poot is about as evil as Hitler and Stalin combined but wears better suits.

The young track star from Texas gets booted from the summer Olympics because of weed. Okay, there are rules; she broke them and paid the price. The 15-year-old Russian skater accidentally ingests handfuls of her Grandpa’s heart meds, tests positive for banned substances, and yet gets to compete because the committee doesn’t want to traumatize the delicate flower. Lots of commie love from the Olympic folks. No one really cares. Gas is up to $3.50 a gallon, and food costs 30 percent more than it did a year ago. That’s what Americans care about.

Baby Trudeau may be the biggest wuss to ever lead a country. A pretty boy with perfect hair and well-fitted suits doesn’t make you a leader. However, the US would be wise to learn from what is happening in Canada because it’s coming to a neighborhood near you. Who knew that a convoy of truckers could shut down a government and be considered a terrorist organization? The Taliban is watching the evening news and saying WTF?

Looks like Spotify is going to lose all their classic rock artists. Who cares? No one. They weren’t that good anyway. If you want to hear them, go buy some vinyl or a CD.

Only In America!


Designer of the year

This is only a rumor, based on the truth, but that’s how these things start.

The old coot in the expensive nursing home is going to allot 30 million smackers for crack pipes, needles, and other paraphernalia for drug abusers; all in the name of equity. Equity for who? Brown, White or Black Americans who already are locked in a losing war with inner-city and suburban drug abuse and drug dealing? Is this what he means? This is supposed to bring equality wrapped in a warm blanket?

Specially designed ” hosting rooms” will welcome the drug abusers with a nice hotel room setting including cable, wifi, a Stearn and Foster queen bed, and a stocked fridge full of cheeses and spirits. And of course, it’s all free of charge. We pay for it. Ain’t Joe nice, bless his failing little heart.

Word on the street is; Hunter Biden will design the crack pipes; hosting an array of multi-colored blown glass ergonomic units. All ” hosting rooms” will be decorated with his artwork and a free signed copy of his latest bestseller.

America, what a country.

The Tarnished Olympic Rings


What a show it was, the opening ceremony of the Winter Olympics. There are choirs of little children singing, cute little kids on snowboards, and skates dressed up in puffy snowsuits looking like the Pillsbury Doughboy. Hundreds of pretty Chinese females run around the main floor holding snowflakes that fly. And then there are the lights. LEDs in all colors and configurations, passing around like alien starships. It reminded me of Spielberg’s movies.

When the Chinese athletes come marching in, the stadium goes crazy. “Cheer or die,” or at best, one of your family members is sent to a re-education resort. Everyone is smiling to the point of fainting, no breathing, just fake smiles. Life isn’t worth much in China.

The NBC folks are gushing about the ceremony. ” Oh, how beautiful, what a wonderful country.” Bullshit to this. Murdering millions of their own citizens, about to invade Taiwan, and in the process of the genocide of Muslim Chinese Uyghurs. No one talks about these things or the virus they released on the world’s population.

Nancy Pelosi, a good friend and benefactor to the CCP tells the United States Olympic team to keep quiet about the regime. Don’t say anything to upset them, as it might get you thrown into prison. Biden has to stay silent, as they own his family and soul. Also, don’t beat the Chinese athletes if you can help it.

The U.S. athletes know the score. They know what has and is being done. The look on their faces, or should I say, “in their eyes” since we can’t see their mouths because of a mask, says it all.

Baseball, Balloon Tires and Cap Pistols


I first met Billy Roy on a Monday morning in September of 1957 when Mrs. Edwards, our third-grade teacher, introduced him to our class. He stood next to her, arms crossed with a sour-ball look on his face.

I knew this kid was trouble. He hadn’t done a thing to anyone yet, but he had that weaselly look about him; beady eyes, no chin, and partially bucked front teeth and a bad haircut, giving him the appearance of a hillbilly.

Our teacher says he is from Hamburg, Germany, and his father is an officer out at Carswell Air Force Base. Billy Roy, she says, is a German and an American citizen but doesn’t speak good English quite yet. So then, what is he, an American boy or a Nazi transplant? We kids knew all about those guys, having watched World War II movies on channel 11 and playing war with our BB guns. We always whopped the Nazis and the Jap’s. We took care of the Mexicans too when we defended the Alamo.

As luck would have it, Billy Roy now lives in my neighborhood, three houses down from my best buddy, Skipper, so after school, the gang calls an emergency meeting to figure out how to deal with this infiltrator.

It’s decided to give the “new kid” a chance to prove his salt; he would be allowed to hang with us until deemed worthy or fell flat on his face.

Our parents got word of our secret plan and told us, “we had better be nice to Billy Roy, or we would wind up at the “Dope Farm.” Someone ratted us out; most likely, it was Georgie; he’s afraid of everything and can’t keep a secret. He is also a known titty-baby.

“The Dope Farm” is a juvenile detention institution that our parents use as a threat when we act up. It keeps us in line. The stories about the place give us nightmares; it’s Sing-Sing for children. One of my older cousins spent some time there and later when he was supposedly rehabilitated, he robbed a Piggly Wiggly at gunpoint dressed as a woman.

Saturday came, our day to ride our bikes to Forest Park diamonds for pick-up baseball games. Our group of eight depart from Skipper’s house at 8:30 am. Billy Roy is standing on the sidewalk as we approach his house.

Skipper stops and asks Billy Roy if he has a bike and a glove; in broken English, he states he has neither of those items.

Georgie, the titty-baby, then says in a snarky tone, “if you don’t have a bike and don’t play baseball, you can’t be part of our gang.” The word’s spoken, the gauntlet laid. It looks as if Billy Roy might be out. Everyone gives him “the look” as they ride by. I feel a little bad for the kid.

Billy Roy keeps to himself during the next school week, eating his sack lunch alone and staying inside during recess. We can care less. He can’t tote his salt.

Saturday morning, 8:30 am, the same scenario. We leave Skippers’ house on bikes, heading for the ball diamonds. As we approach Billy Roys’s house, he comes flying out of his garage on a brand-spanking-new Schwinn Hornet bike. A chrome headlight and tail-light adorn the bright red and white bikeā€”the sun’s reflection off the chrome fenders that cover the white sidewall balloon tires is blinding. Hanging on the handlebars is a new double-stitched  “Plug Redman” Rawlings baseball glove, and sitting on his little head is a genuine New York Yankees ball cap.

Skipper skids to a stop and the rest of our bunch almost wreck our bikes trying to miss him. What is going on here?

The gang is in awe and more than a tad envious. This kids’ been here two weeks, doesn’t play baseball, can’t speak English, is likely a German spy, and here he is riding the Caddillac of bikes and now sports new ball equipment. Some snot-nose in our neighborhood is as rich as King Faruk, and it isn’t us.

Skipper, the wise leader of our bunch, surveys the scene, then tells Billy Roy that he can come along with us to the baseball diamonds since he now has the required items. So he rides at the end of our pack and struggles to control his expensive bike. He crashes a few times but catches up. Unfortunately for our intern, things don’t go well at the ballpark.

After educating Billy Roy on holding and swinging a bat, he’s bonked square in the forehead with a 40 mile per hour hardball. He’s out like a corpse.

The umpire, some kid’s father, drags him over to the bleachers and pours a cup of cold water on his head. Billy Roy wakes up, staggers about for a minute, and acts as nothing happened. We are impressed, he’s tougher than we thought.

Around the fourth inning, Billy Roy tells us that he is going home. He’s a bit dizzy and wobbly after his bonk and can’t participate in the rest of the game. We get it. He departs, driving his fancy bike from curb to curb like a blind drunk.

After the game, which we won, we gather our stuff left in the dugout.

Stevie says he can’t find his Cub Scout knife. Freckled Face Bean can’t find his Roy Rogers watch, and Skippers’ decoder ring is missing. My almost new pack of Juicy Fruit is also gone. Good Lord! there’s a thief amongst us. Georgie, the titty-baby, is the likely culprit; but he says he can’t find his dental retainer, so he’s cleared. That makes Billy “the Nazi” Roy the perpetrator. There is an ass-whoopin’ brewing. With retribution in our hearts, we haul-ass to Billy’s house.

Mrs. Roy answers their door. We demand to see Billy, so she brings him to face us. He stands behind the screen door for protection. But, of course, he denies it all until Skipper tells him to step onto the porch so he can whoop him. Billy steps onto the porch, but before Skipper can get a lick in, Billy pulls a switchblade knife from his pocket. He pops the blade and waves it at Skipper. Yikes! Not only is the little Nazi a thief, but he’s also a West Side Story hoodlum. We leave the porch and the guilty Billy Roy to his young life of crime.

After the incident, Billy Roy, to us kids, is a fart in the wind.

Having ruined his reputation in our neighborhood, he starts hanging with some older hoodlum boys from across the railroad tracks; we call them “the hard guys.” We are sure they will wind up at “The Dope Farm” sooner or later, and now young Billy will join them.

A few days before Christmas vacation, Billy Roy is missing from school for almost a week. We figure he has the bird flu or polio.

The next day, a rumor around the neighborhood, and now our school is that Billy Roy and two of the “hard guys” were pinched for holding up our small neighborhood grocery store with a Mattel Fanner 50 cap pistol.

We all agreed, that the bonk from the baseball injured his kid brain and turned him into a criminal. Last we heard, Billy and the two “hard guys” were off to the “Dope Farm.”

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