China got us again. First, it was the China Virus. Now, it’s a spiffy little AI program. This tech wonderment was developed in a few hours with barely enough chips to run a flip-top phone. The nervous boys at the stock market panic, that’s what they do best. They start selling tech stocks and ruining millions of folks. Has anyone in our government checked to see if this CCP program works? I doubt it. We can be assured that the technology was handed over to China for a few million. Maybe it was passed in a brown envelope delivered by a devious first son. Or perhaps someone hacked it from a secure computer while the tech was napping in their safe room. It doesn’t much matter now: they got us good this time. We need Denzel Washington or Sylvester Stallone to take names and kick ass.
Is this the newest Sputnik moment?
“Surprise…you greedy capitalist dogs. We couldn’t finish you with our little viral bug, but this should do the trick. Check your fortune cookie for lottery numbers.”
According to the news gals on TV, the end of the world is upon Texas: snow is coming on Thursday and Friday, maybe a foot or more of the lovely puffy winter blanket. The problem is that the folks in this part of Texas don’t know anything about snow or how to deal with it. Schools are closing, businesses are having “End of Times” sales and liquor stores are running out of stock. This is as serious as the chicken flu.
Like every other fool in town, I went to the H-E-B for a few supplies: pork rinds, wine, beer, Cheeto’s, Wolf Brand Chili, A2 milk, and Ovaltine. I live in a hilly area, and if Momo and I get snowed or iced in, we cannot get out. Exceptions would be made for the hospital or the liquor store for hootch supplies.
I walked into an “End Times” scenario. The H-E-B, that pure Texas grocer, was in full pandemonium mode. The local police were arresting a mother for stealing food from an old woman’s shopping cart, her two young baby childs holding onto their mother’s legs as she was dragged out of the store. The store manager tased an old guy for ramming other shoppers with the store’s personal scooter.
Women were fighting, pulling hair, punching, kicking, and biting each other over toilet paper. Children ran wild down the aisles, grabbing cookies and any sugary treat. One kid stood atop the frozen food kiosk, throwing Red Baron pizzas at the snarling crowd below. It was like a scene from The Walking Dead.
I ran into my old pal Mooch. He had a garbage bag full of Pork Rinds and five cases of Pabst Beer, enough to see him through the apocalypse.
I found what I needed and went to the cashier; she said,
“take it, no charge, the machines have cratered.”
Arriving home, I found Momo cleaning our pistols and checking our ammo supply. She’s a crack shot, so I pity the fool who comes onto our property with intentions to steal. She’s excited about the Snowmeggdon and wants to make snow angels in our backyard. I told her the only thing we could make would be old people’s angels when we fall down and can’t get up and have to crawl back to the patio.
Last night, I dreamed of Europe, teetering on the brink of war, reminiscent of those haunting days of the 1940s. It was not a nightmare but rather a sepia-toned memory, grainy like an old newsreel flickering in a rundown theater, the air thick with the scent of buttered popcorn and sticky sodas clinging to the soles of my worn Tom McCann wingtips. Beside me, my wife, Momo, sat elegantly in her gabardine dress, her silk scarf accentuating her perfect neck. A picture of quiet strength amidst the storm brewing outside. Somehow, as if a magical spell, we knew of war, maybe because our fathers had participated, not reluctantly like some, but dutiful, knowing their presence would make a difference in the outcome.
We found ourselves seated amid a crowd, the air thick with the scent of Old Spice, a memory of times past. Momo leaned forward; her senses caught Chanel No. 5 drifting languidly alongside us while cigarette smoke curled upwards, smothering the flickering images that danced on the screen. An army advanced in unyielding formation, each soldier a cog in an unfeeling machine ready to unleash mayhem upon a peaceful country. A lone figure stood poised for inspection; within his eyes, a cold emptiness lingered, reminiscent of a predator—those soulless eyes of a waiting shark. At first, I thought he might be Hitler, a returned demon from the depths of Hell. I was wrong. A Russian, short in stature, long on evil, intent on destruction. The shark now has legs and walks among us. I awakened, sweating and gasping. Momo sleeping peacefully, unaware of the dream we shared. We left without seeing the movie.
My grandfather, John Henry Strawn, was a man who walked through the shadow of World War I, kill or be killed, and he did that to stay alive. This left his life marked indelibly by the echoes of battle and the night terrors of remembrance.
Like a capricious storyteller, as most newspapers were in those years, in the bustling heart of Los Angeles, the “Daily News” spilled forth tales of a world war that often danced precariously between the lines of truth and embellishment. John Henry read the papers, listened to the radio, and sensed the winds of conflict stirring anew: England, under the dogged leadership of Churchill, had already been forced to take up arms against Germany, and the very fabric of Europe was being torn apart by Hitler’s relentless march. The veterans he worked with and once fought beside in the first war, their spirits worn yet resolute, whispered with a shared conviction that Japan, lurking in the periphery, was quietly readying itself for an insidious alliance with the Nazis, as if the world were a stage set for a dark, unfolding tragedy.
Though a year too young to answer the call of duty, my father carried the heavy knowledge that at eighteen, the war might come knocking at his door.
With weary eyes and a resolve hardened by fate, Churchill was bartering and begging Roosevelt for machines of war, trying to keep the demons of Hitler from roaming freely on Europe’s fields and invading his island nation. With the earnestness and bravo of youth, Young Johnny approached his father, asking him to sign the papers letting him enter the fray at seventeen. No man who had walked the grim aisles of battle wanted his only son to face the specter of death on foreign soil, yet in a moment of bittersweet surrender, he found himself issuing that reluctant blessing, driven by a love that could not deny the call of his son’s heart. Convincing his wife, Bertha, would be a battle he dreaded and would likely lose.
Japan unleashed its first thunderbolt, and as the morning awoke over Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, our once-proud Navel fleet lay shattered on the waters of war, a haunting reflection of the chaos unleashed on that fateful December 7th, 1941. The weight of long-forgotten battles seemed to press upon the shoulders of the divine Emperor Hirohito as if the specters of ancient warlords propelled him towards an unseen abyss, a dark and uncertain fate simmering beyond the horizon. The gates of Hell swallowed Japan, and the gatekeeper kept them imprisoned until their foolish folly was completed.
Three members of the string band Blind Faith had fancied themselves sailors and enlisted in the Navy, much to the dismay of Johnny, Blind Jelly Roll, Pancho Villa, and Le’ Petite Fromage, who found themselves in possession of a hefty bag of bookings badly in need of some good ol’ resolution. To add a sprinkle of chaos to the mix, Pancho Villa, the loyal seeing eye dog of Blind Jelly Roll, had now joined the ranks of the visually impaired, having lost sight in his last good eye. Sister Aimee, ever the resourceful soul, splurged on a certified German Shepherd to take over the seeing-eye duties, much like the replacement engine in a clunky old jalopy. Pancho Villa, undeterred and full of moxie, took to his new post on a small platform fixed to the back of this new pooch’s harness, barking orders like a captain adrift at sea, blissfully unaware of his own shortcomings. More than once, they came perilously close to being flattened by a passing car, prompting Jelly to stuff Pancho into a papoose on his shoulder, urging the little rascal to button it. It was becoming painfully apparent that the music of the Blind Faith string band was about to fade into the pages of history, as every good tale must come to an end; their final curtain had been drawn, and boy, did it drop with a thud!
Le Petite Fromage, bless her heart, found herself smitten with the charming trumpet player of the church orchestra, a situation that surely raised the eyebrows of the good girls in the choir. Sister Aimee tied the knot between the two in their rather cramped dressing room as a way of keeping things discreet—or perhaps just to save on wedding costs. Off they scampered on an Eastbound train to Chigger Bayou, Louisiana, the very next day, with visions of a well-timed little one dancing in their heads like so many sugar plum fairies. Meanwhile, good ol’ John Henry, ever the dutiful father, marched with his son Johnny to the enlistment office, signing his life away in exchange for a rather dashing Navy uniform, all at the tender age of seventeen. As for Bertha, bless her soul, she took to her bed like a shipwrecked sailor, wailing and concocting her questionable brews that promised to calm her nerves but likely only added to her woes. There she lay, utterly convinced that her son was on an express boat to Pearl Harbor and straight into the chaos of World War II. The dutiful son had left one duty to embrace another.
I’ve recently sprouted a beard, and much to my surprise, not a single dark hair dares to intrude upon my snowy facial wilderness: the scruffy testament to my frothy mirth matches the proud hue atop my head, a delicate white crown. As a son of Cherokee lineage, I stood astonished, finding myself transforming into an old man with pearly locks in my forties. This change, I suspect, is the handiwork of my father’s Scotch-Irish heritage—a rowdy clan of kilted revelers who seemed to navigate life with laughter and a touch of mischief. They must have commandeered a ship, setting sail for New York, then onto Pennsylvania, where the merry-making reached promising heights. My grandfather would neither confirm nor deny the wild tales of our kin. This speaks volumes about my love for Irish Whiskey, while the Cherokee blood in my veins draws me to large, sharp knives. Hand a drink to an Indian, and trouble isn’t far behind. History whispers of how Little Bighorn ended for Custer. Loose chatter suggests that Sitting Bull and Howling Wolf snagged a wagon load of drink the night before the fray, bestowing upon the braves a reckless spirit. Had they chosen an early night with a hearty breakfast of Buffalo tacos, perhaps the bloody disaster would have been averted.
As a boy of nine, I dreamt of writing like Twain. In my innocence, I thought I was his spirit reborn, dropped into a different time: September of 1949, the last year of the baby boomer generation. With a Big Chief Tablet and a number 2 pencil, I set out to capture the simple chaos of childhood mischief. There were four of us, bold and reckless, stealing cigarettes, hurling water balloons at police cars, and fighting with the tough kids across the tracks. The local papers laughed at my tales as if a child’s imagination could not hold weight. My aunt, wise and educated, introduced me to Spillane and Steinbeck. Spillane turned me into a wise-ass, insufferable child, resulting in numerous mouth cleansings with Lifeboy soap. Steinbeck felt right—my family had lived a life like Tom Joad’s, migrating to California during hard times of the Dust Bowl and the 1930s. I had stories in me, maybe even a book. A therapist dismissed it as a childish fantasy, saying it would fade. Yet here I am, much older, still tethered to that innocence. Now, I’m in my Hemingway phase, my looks echoing the rugged man who lived wild in Cuba, writing furiously while embracing the chaos of life.
There is more sand in the bottom of my hourglass than in the top. I feel the end approaching. I do not wish to know the day or hour. I can only pray it is a good one, resulting in a trip to Heaven, which is better than the alternative. I am not the writer Twain, Steinbeck, or Hemingway was. They had talent, and they had time from youth to hone their craft and find their voices. Yet, I will still give it a try.
As the months stretched into years, the Strawn family flourished financially, finding their footing in California’s golden land. The prospect of permanence hung in the air, and the pull of Texas grew less each year. Johnny’s elder sister, Norma, had begged to remain with one of her aunts to complete her schooling, but destiny had other plans. Completing her education in Fort Worth, she succumbed to the barrage of pleading letters from her mother, who was convinced that her death was only weeks or hours away, but she would try to hold on until her daughter made it to California. Knowing Bertha’s love for drama, her aunts consoled Norma and thought it best that she travel to California and could return if needed. With a small amount of currency in her purse, she embarked on a westward journey with a family bound for Los Angeles, paying for a seat in their car.
After two years of absence from the fold, Norma returned to find her family ensnared in a web of not-so-well-hidden disillusionment. The initial euphoria of their reunion faded, exposing the harsh light of reality. Her father, now a manager, toiled away long hours with little time left for living, while Johnny when not in school, devoted all his time to the members of his string band, Blind Faith. Her mother’s dependence on medicinal elixirs was the worst of it.
Bertha, a dedicated aficionado of her restorative elixirs, consumed multiple weekly bottles. She has a friendly rapport with the local pharmacist, who considers her his best customer and gives her a discount. She would often be found at the kitchen table for most of the day, dosing her tonics and composing lengthy, nonsensical letters to her sisters. By this time, her siblings had come to understand that the words emanated from the pen of a medicinal lunatic. Norma and Johnny acknowledged the necessity of professional intervention for their mother, and, with assistance from Le Petite Fromage and Blind Jelly Roll, they formulated a plan for Bertha to undergo a holistic religious cure under the guidance of Sister Aimee McPherson.
On that Sunday, a vibrant sermon accompanied by half a dozen show tunes with a dazzling chorus line stirred the congregation as Sister Aimee made her return to the pulpit for three thunderous ovations. Following the service, Le Petite Fromage and Johnny, the fiddler, as he is now called, escorted Bertha to the orchestra dressing room, believing her holiness sought to personally meet her and perhaps bestow a signed copy of her latest literary work, “You Can’t Take It With You When You Go So Give It To Me.” Embracing Bertha warmly, Sister Aimee presented her with a signed book before guiding her to a crimson velvet settee that had previously served as Blind Jelly’s salvation vehicle. With hands upon Bertha’s head, she prayed for deliverance from the grip of elixirs and zealous missives to her siblings. Understanding she had been played by her blood kin, Bertha, teeth-gnashing and fist-squeezed white, surrendered and embraced the moment. The healing transpired in a mere ten minutes as Sister Aimee proudly proclaimed the departure of the demons, assuring that all would be splendid by supper time. As she departed the dressing room, a divine fragrance lingered in the air. Blind Jelly Roll spoke up, ” I smells me some Channel No. 1. ” Leave it to a blind bluesman with the senses of nine cats to figure it out.
With the spoke mended in the family wheel, taut and ready for the road, John Henry indulged the family, comprising of Le Petite and Blind Jelly Roll, to a Sunday supper at a restaurant. Their choice fell upon Treasure Island, a pseudo-swanky seafood establishment under the ownership of the actor Wallace Beery. The best restaurants were on the Sunset Boulevard, known as the Strip. The entrance was the front hull of a sailing schooner, complete with a mast and sail. Johnny noticed the address above the door: 77 Sunset Strip: that address would come up again a bit later. Bertha and Le Petite were giddy, anticipating the prospect of encountering Hollywood movie stars savoring fish and chips washed down with a dirty Martini.
While awaiting their meal, James Cagney and his raucous family were seated a few tables away. Clark Gable and Carman Miranda snuggled in a cozy booth, where they indulged in sips of Martini and beer. Le Petite and Bertha were in a state of apoplexy. Carman Miranda made her way to the lady’s room, passing their table. Pancho Villa sat upon Blind Jelly’s lap, nibbling on a saltine. As the movie star strolled by, she took notice of Pancho and remarked on the adorable little doggie. When she reached out to pet Pancho, she received a vicious bite that tore off the long middle fingernail from her left hand’s digit. Stunned by the sudden attack, she yelled, “Get that little demon dog out of here!” Pancho and Blind Jelly concluded their meal in the comfort of Strawn’s car.
If you missed Chapter 9, click the link below for more amusement.
My grandmother hailed from a sizable brood: four sisters and a solitary brother. Their formative years were spent in the sun-drenched fields of south Texas, toiling on the family produce farm. The patriarch, Grandfather Duncan, regarded his children as mere hired hands and didn’t pay them a dime. Every child born saved him from hiring a lazy field hand to pick his watermelons and oranges.
Upon the completion of their high school years, one by one, the siblings, usually in the dead of night and with assistance from the others, embarked on a journey, whether by bus, train, hitchhiking, or on foot, seeking their own version of freedom from the farm. Miraculously, within a few years, they and their new spouses found themselves settling in Fort Worth, Texas, mere blocks apart.
The transition from Texas to California proved to be arduous. My grandfather, possessing the toughness of weathered leather and an insensitivity to female emotions, saw the move as a blessing and a chance for a new beginning. However, for Bertha, it felt more like a forced abduction. John Henry appeared oblivious to her distress, or perhaps he believed it would pass in due time. Yet her sorrow lingered until she stumbled upon a seeming panacea: alcohol, fashioned into the magical healing elixirs hawked on the radio and in the newspapers. From anemia to tremors, from insomnia to weight loss, from night sweats to antisocial behavior, there existed a bottled pharmaceutical remedy for every affliction, no doctor’s visit required. Countless bottles of happy juice lined the shelves of the local drugstore, catering to the myriad conditions that afflicted my grandmother, a certified hypochondriac.
When not self-diagnosing herself that she harbored every disease known to man and convinced that her death was mere hours away, Bertha was quite the letter writer. Every day, seated at her kitchen table, her fountain pen full of blue ink, she’d churn out missives to her sisters in Texas. Fueled by her newfound self-assurance courtesy of those magic elixirs, she didn’t see any harm in embellishing the truth a bit about her new life out in California: alone in a strange land, who could blame her? It’s not as if her family would ever drop by for a visit. As time went by, her letters became creative works of fiction, painting the picture of a grand Beverly Hills home in place of her modest stucco house and a swanky Duesenberg convertible instead of their old Ford. According to Bertha, even the legendary Clark Gable was a neighbor, and Sister Aimee McPherson, the radio firebrand preacher gal, became a dear friend, and the two of them often enjoyed lunch at Musso and Franks Grill, mingling with the movie stars. Bertha was dead set on landing an audition with MGM or writing a grandiose screenplay, all thanks to that magical elixir of hers. Not thinking of how she would explain her fabricated world when they returned to Texas, she continued, and the more she wrote, the more she believed her own stories.
When Johnny turned thirteen, he approached his father with a request to pursue a professional career in music. John Henry, harboring doubts about the practicality of such a proposal, pondered the unlikelihood of anyone hiring a boy for such a venture, much less paying him with real money. Nonetheless, three of Johnny’s older schoolmates had extended an invitation to join their string band, which often performed at birthday parties and school events for a small fee, which was usually a coke and a plate of food. Their need for a fiddle player in the Bakersfield-style hillbilly tunes they favored aligned perfectly with Johnny’s musical talents. That evening, seated on the front porch after supper, Johnny revealed his decision to his father — he had embarked on a professional journey with his newfound band. Despite his initial surprise, John Henry offered his warm congratulations to the young boy venturing into this new vocation.
Their first official rehearsal was an epic disaster. The guitar player knew four, maybe five chords on his out-of-tune instrument, the bass player, using a beat-up dog house bass fiddle, couldn’t get the beast anywhere near in-tune, and the tenor banjo picker was worse than the other two. After massacering a dozen or so tunes, Johnny floated an option. He knows of a genuine black blues singer who burns up a guitar when he plays. The other three were wagging their tails like a hungry dog and voted to bring this fellow into the fold. Now, Johnny had to convince Blind Jelly Roll Jackson to play with a bunch of borderline musicians.
Church on Sunday was a rousing spectacle. Sister Aimee, after singing a handful of beautiful songs and just enough preaching to make sure the offering plates were full, called for souls that needed saving to approach the altar and receive Jesus. This was part of every service; a few folks would come down to be blessed and saved. With the orchestra playing, the choir singing, and a contingent of Hollywood-style dancers on stage, a hundred folks rushed the front in need of salvation. Sister Aimee, not knowing how to handle a worked-up mob that scared her out of her witts, retreated stage right and hid in her dressing room. Her assistant preacher and a few ushers administered to the flock while Sister Aimee gulped a handful of Carter’s nerve pills, washing them down with “Father Flannigan’s Holy Healing Tonic,” which was around 80% alcohol and claimed to be brewed from the holy waters of the River Jordan.
Being in the right place at the right time can lead to life-changing events. A bit of prayer added to the mix produces wonderful things.
From what I was told, my grandfather was willing to lend a helping hand to anyone who needed one. He was kind to a fault and was often taken advantage of by family members and close friends. I can’t use them in this chapter because their families are still alive, they know where I live, and everyone is so touchy. I was ten when my grandfather passed on. He made sure I learned numerous lessons from his mistakes. Being the great poohbah recounter in the family, he left me with enough oral history to fill a book. I remember most of it from his stories and yarns, of which he could spin some tall ones. No one thought to write anything down, so for now, I’ve been blessed with a good memory, but only for a while.
John Henry helps the man carry the heavy piece of furniture into the house and places it in a small bedroom that appears to be that of a girl. Pink ruffles and stuffed animals is a sure sign.
With the furniture all squared away, the two men stood on the front porch, taking a break to enjoy a smoke. John Henry offered one of his Lucky Strikes to the other fellow, and they both lit up with a flick of the Zippo John Henry still carried from the war. The man introduced himself as Sargent James, said that was his real name, and he never rose higher than corporal in the Army. That got a good laugh out of them both. He told John Henry about his wife, Sunny, and their daughter Cloudy, away at school in Sacramento on some kind of scholarship, studying’ to be a doctor no less.
After lunch, the two men traded stories and discovered they served in France at about the same time, 1917-1918, in the big war against the Germans.
Veterans become fast, tight friends; the probability of dying from a bullet or an exploding shell bonds them in a way only they understand. It’s a brotherhood for life, formed on the battlefield.
They had both been wounded in battle; John Henry having but half a left buttock, compliments of shrapnel and had been gassed twice while fighting in the muddy trenches. His new friend was shot in the leg and the arm but recovered enough to continue fighting until some shrapnel sent him to a hospital in England and then home for good. Both showed their scars like kids on a school playground trying to outdo the other.
John Henry is no saint; he will own up to killing men in battle, some with his rifle, a few with a bayonet, one with a large rock to the head, and one stabbed through the heart with his side knife. He regrets them all, especially the young German boy, no more than a teenager he stabbed during hand-to-hand fighting before the soldier got the better of him with his sidearm. His face is the one in his worst dreams. The boy’s face looks as if he knows he is a dead man, as he is within seconds. It took years for the brutality to catch up to him, and now, late at night, when the ticking clock is the only sound in the house, his demons come for him.
Both men dance around the worst battle stories but share memories of their friends, living and dead. It’s easier that way. John Henry’s half-a-buttock won the competition. The prize was a large slice of apple pie with melted cheese topping. He feels comfortable enough to ask his host if he might know of any work a man could find. Sargent mulls the question a few moments, then says,
“I’ve got a cousin that works at the docks building shipping crates, I’ll give him a call and see if he can get you an interview. Swing by here in the morning around seven and I’ll have you an answer. I can’t promise anything, but he has the ear of the owner. ”
Good on his word, Sargent had John Henry an answer, and it was the one he had hoped for, an interview for a job. He thanked Sargent and gladly took the biscuit sandwich that Sunny insisted he eat before his interview.
Six-thirty finds John Henry standing on the sidewalk in front of the business, 808 Shipping Row. The docks are half-block away, and the noise of men and equipment moving heavy crates onto ships carries in the cool morning breeze.
Two doors are marked “Entry,” so he takes the one on the left. Down a short hallway into a large office, he finds a man sitting at a desk drinking coffee and writing in a journal. The man invites him to sit and have a cup. John Henry thinks this must be the shop foreman or the interview man. After drinking coffee for a few minutes, the man asked him about family, church, drinking, accountability, and his time in the service. After a thirty-minute visit, with a few laughs, the fellow stands, shakes John Henry’s hand, and tells him to start tomorrow morning at seven am sharp, and by the way, he is the company’s owner. Augustus Petrillo, and welcome aboard.
My grandparents, my father, and my aunt migrated from Texas to California in 1934 because there were no jobs available in Fort Worth or Dallas. When reaching the desert town of Needles, CA, they were immediately labeled “Okie’s” by the border guards. My grandfather, a man of few but choice words, mostly curse ones, did his best to convince the guards that he was a Texan and had visited Oklahoma once for a funeral, which made the situation worse because the guards then labeled them Texas Okie’s, which was a double insult, and to boot, they weren’t welcome in the land of pleasant weather and movie stars. Grandfather turned himself into a poor man’s Will Rogers, with plenty of aw-shucks, dirt-kicking, and head-scratching, which made the guards laugh, so the family was admitted. He forgot to mention the three pistols, the sawed-off shotgun, and his pet Rattlesnake, stashed in a burlap bag under the front seat of his Ford.
Now, I know that the world is off its axis: Willie Nelson is moving his famous 4th of July Picnic from Texas to somewhere in the Northeast to beat the heat. Look, Willie, the brutal life ending heat, Lone Star longnecks beer, no restroom facilities, drugged crazed hippies and cowboys are what your picnic is about. If Waylon was here, he would kick your scrawny old butt for even considering a relocation to of all places…Yankee land. Kris is still around, so he might just step in and do it. I attended one of his picnics back in the late 70s at Palo Duro Canyon and damn near expired from the hellish heat, no water and very little food. I survived by crawling under a car for shade, which at that point, it didn’t matter, my skin was roasted, and my dark hair bleached white. Around dark, ole Willie steps up to the mic and belts out Whisky River. Trigger, his beat-up Martin guitar was out of tune, his singing was off meter and he was likely higher than a California Redwood, but it was Willie, our Patron Saint of Texas Country Music. We sat transfixed on the hard dirt and rock, fire ants chewing on our legs, Rattle Snakes crawling about begging for a beer, and hundreds of poor passed out folks missing the show they came for. Please, Willie, keep it in Texas. I have confirmation from a good and mostly reliable source that your Saint Hood is imminent. This might screw it up.
Jewish Students Revolt Against Federal Protected Students
There is now a movement on most of the elite university campuses to oust and delete the fake Palestinian protesters. Two groups calling themselves “Jews For Jesus” and “Frat Boys Revenge” are now in place at most of the major universities. Maya Sharona, field correspondent for NPR interviewed a protestor at MIT.
MS: Excuse me, are you a woman or a man, It’s hard to tell with all the scarfs wrapped around your head?
Student: I am neither of those words, call me a new servant of Allah, willing to die for whatever Allah and that woman with the megaphone tells me too. Please film my left side, that’s my best profile. Should I show my molitove cocktail for the camera?
MS: Sorry, there is no camera, this is radio. What exactly are you protesting?
Student: I am not really sure, wait a moment, I must check TikTok and Facebook, all of our information and instructions comes from them. Ahh yes, here we are, (screaming)” Death to Israel, Death to all Jews, and Death to America” we demand Starbucks Latte’s and vegan pizzas, student loan forgiveness, and a free diploma in the curriculum of our choice. That’s a bummer about the no camera, got all dressed up for nothing.
MS: There is a group of frat boys over there by that police car. They look menacing and most of them are twice the size of your comrades. I believe they may be about to kick your butts.
Student: Allah and Papa Biden will protect us, we are the chosen people of Palestine, or maybe it’s Gaza, or Syria. It doesn’t matter, we are protected by the Federal Government, like the tiny fish and the lady-boys with fake boobies.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 