Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Clem the Dem Wit




During the swearing in of new Missouri National Guardsmen at the Missouri-Tennessee college football game, a portion of the crowd booed at the mention of the President of the United States in the oath.  Attending the game was state representative Clem Smith who stated afterward:  “Those crowd members disrespected the proud men and women of our nation’s great military, the President of the United States and the upstanding citizens of Missouri.”
 
No, Clem "Kadiddlehopper" Smith, some in the crowd were quite sober, attentive and in possession of more than 5 percent of a human brain.  And we all know that 5 percent or less is insignificant and of no bother.  At least that's true when it pertains to the percentage of the population in misery due to losing their health insurance.
 
Barack Obama, who doesn't deserve the title of "mister" much less "President of the United States", is deserving of all the disrespect a person can muster.  He is a pathological liar, an egotist smothered in solipsism, and a backstabbing thug.  The only man he is willing to face head-on is a straw man, and he even has to lie and deceive to vanquish him.
 
It's been reported that Barack Obama said, "I'm really good at killing people."  That is true, but he is adept at killing more than just people.  He should have said, "I'm really good at killing, PERIOD."
 
 
 
 
 

Friday, November 1, 2013

Someone is a Lying, Felonious, Plagiarizing Piece of Shit




Is the reason Obama is always "out of the loop" because he was writing the terrorist Bill Ayers book, Public Enemy?  Or did Bill Ayers write Obama's book, Dreams From My Father.  Whichever, the truth is they're both lying, felonious pieces of shit and, probably, only one is a plagiarist.
 
Check out the opening paragraph from one of the books:
 
A few months after my twenty-first birthday, a stranger called to give me the news.  It was a mid-April evening, the sweet smells of springtime upon us and the last light reluctantly giving way outside the front window, when my graduate seminar ended and everyone pitched in to clean up.  I was living in New York at the time, on Ninety-fourth between Second and First, part of that unmasked, shifting border between East Harlem and the rest of Manhattan.  A dozen of my students were spread out in our living room, cups and dishes scattered everywhere, small piles of books and papers marking specific territory.  It was an un-inviting block, treeless and barren, lined with soot-colored walk-ups that cast heavy shadows for most of the day.  Until the moment before, all of us had focused intensely on the work at hand: thesis development, the art of personal essay, and the formal demands of oral history research.  The apartment was small, with slanting floors and irregular heat and a buzzer downstairs that didn't work, so that visitors had to call ahead from a pay phone at the corner gas station, where a black Doberman the size of a wolf paced through the  night in vigilant patrol, its jaw clamped around an empty beer bottle.  As a professor for two decades, my favorite teaching moments often popped up during these customary potluck seminars at our home - something about sharing food in a more intimate personal setting, perhaps, or disrupting the assumed heirarchy of teacher authority, or simply being freed from the windowless, fluorescent-lit concrete bunkers that passed for classrooms at my university.  None of this concerned me much, for I didn't get many visitors.  But the seminar was done for the evening, and as the students began to gather their things, a self-described "political junkie" clicked on the TV and flipped to the presidential primary debate, well under way now, between Hillary Clinton and the young upstart from Chicago, Barack Obama.  I was impatient in those days, busy with work and unrealized plans, and prone to see other people as unnecessary distractions.
 
Do you find that the sentences above flow well together, but that the storyline seems a bit disjointed?  That's because I lied.  The paragraph is not from one of the books; it's from both.  It actually is an interlacing of the first sentences from both books.  The paragraph starts with the first sentence from Dreams From My Father, and the second sentence in the paragraph is the first sentence from Public Enemy. The paragraph  alternates between the opening sentences in the two books.