“H’it Hain’t No Dem-O-Crcy, People!”

(March 11, 2018)


As I was tellin’ some young people recently, These United States (of America) – is, or are if you want to be old-school precise as The Queen might put it – NOT A Democracy!  Why do I say that?  Lemme tells ya!

When my two brothers and I were very young my family was so poor we boys got only one meal a day – from just before sunrise to well after sunset.  Dad had his breakfast earlier. Then we got up, washed and dressed if it was a schoolday, made beds if we minded but that was Mom’s only point-of-snoop since she never went into our dresser drawers and never entered a closed bedroom door without knocking.  So we got indoctrinated in polite manners by osmosis, you might say.  But back to the point: Dad was brought up poor, too.  Most of his life he ate before the birds sang because he went to work – in our days at the start at least, for the United States’ Navy.  As we neared teenhood he spent his time practice-bombing Russia – but then it was called The Soviet Union though its full nomenclature was Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, but that was mostly eyewash for the hopeful useful fools who will shear themselves if you loan them – on time payments – the clippers because all those Unions and Republics in the name fooled a lot of people out of remembering that country was a Socialist State and neither a democracy nor a republic.  Dad’s last plane was the Navy’s first twin-engined aircraft carrier-capable atomic- and thermo-nuclear bomb-capable attack jet called the Douglass A3-D, or as some sailor wags named it The All Three Dead since it had no ejection capability what with all those other capabilities (a hole in the flight deck room and a slide for my pop who was the airplane’s enlisted Plane Captain, in-flight aviation machinist’s mate of several varieties including motor, and what I like to think of as the cherry on top was the navigator/bombadier.  Yep. He was the reason those officer guys up front and on top carried Dad around The Great Circle Route to deliver unto The Heathen Reds the Single Integrated Operations Plan – also known as Put Russia back to the Stone Ages.  He flew all over the place practice-bombing sometimes in The Whale, which was the Navy’s official and semi-unofficial nickname for the A3-D, which was used from its inception and acceptance by The Nave in the early 1950s through the Desert Storm operations of the 1990 as a aerial radar and communications bus and aerial flight operations control center.  The Whale was the plane made famous in The Flight of The Intruder movie starring Gene Hackman as the sole survivor of the intel-gathering of the Air Force’s version of the A3-D which it called the B-66.  Only the A3 and the McDonnell-Douglass F4F Phantom II were accepted by the Air Force from The Navy until recent reorientation of all Armed Forces to make things go smoother, but still at the astronomic prices, when it came to hardware acquisition.

The practice bombing as necessary.

All those nations which began calling themselves Democracies began threatening – and many still do to this day – The Republic known as The United States of America. If you would, please turn in our hymnal to the nation’s Pledge of Allegiance…”and  The Republic for which it stands…” part in that pledge which uses our National Ensign – the flag: Old Glory – as the symbol for which it – The Republic – stands.  Now, we are getting somewhere.  Yes, Virginia. We are a Republic. And we stand.

We are, in fact, a representative republic with our representatives elected to serve both the people of the districts in the several states by Congressmen in Congressional Districts in the Several States and by the then-appointed by State Legislatures and now by popular vote – every citizen of adult age who desires to participate – in a democratically elected fashion.  I suspect the bear-chasing-the-fly in the ointment is the phrase “democratically” elected, meaning one man (and in this case man means both men and women so shut up and suffer! – which confuses many politicians and almost all newspaper, radio and television talking heads into thinking our nation is a Democracy.

In a democracy it’s one-man one-vote, just like it is in our Representative Republic.  The ointment’s Bear-And-Fly is that in a democracy everyone has a say.  In a representative republic we vote to elect representatives and now senators to have our say for us.  And they do not have to say the way we say.  They Represent us, not slavishly follow our bleatings as we follow the herds on television and popular media bleating about this-that-‘tothers fed by the socialists who took over our once useful public educational system and now have turned that into a daycare/penal institution with indoctrination in Socialist arcanea as its major – and other than football and basketball stars – malfunction.

We get a lot of silly out of schools these days.  But look what we put into them.  In a real Democracy we might have a chance to gain control – ha! – of the process by outvoting the vested interests and entrenched bureaucrats and say: let’s all go back to before Federal and State departments of Education (al indoctrination) and let the local school districts fetch us up some superior experiments in teaching kids to be kids and to use imagination and a healthy whack to the seat of the pants – or dresses if the need obtains – either at home or right outside the elementary school classroom for all to hear and learn instead of a pampering and an Armalite semi-automatic rifle for by to assuage one’s tilted self image and self hate.

But that is for another screed.  I almost am finished telling you the real differences between democracies and republics. In a republic you have the freedom to work and the reason to save and the ability to eat what you sew and reap and what the sweat of your skull and your brow and back bring to you as just rewards for your toil – and the portions of your life you choose to spend in acquiring those things you want, need and desire.  In a democracy, you work, often at watching others to see they need, want and desire just the same as you.  But you also must not mind that the men and women above your station have special status you never can expect to earn because…well, just because they are the ones in charge.  And how did they get that way?  Why…wait just a minute.  Didn’t you learn not to ask why in class?  Go to the office of re-education young person – you see, now in our Democratic Socialist Republic we no longer have those useless and dangerous and threatening distinctions as man and woman, boy or girl: we All Are Equal now.

Just some of us are MORE equal.

And that is the difference.

And now I am going to go back uptown and eat from my garden what I grew and screw anyone who says me nay!



(March 12, 2018)

Over radio, heard Sunday night on Armed American Radio – if I have a concealed (firearm) carrying permit and still can not enter a school’s grounds – or anywhere else for that matter* – something is wrong with the permitting process.

  • (the same obtains with bars, cars, trains, buses and planes  Do not issue concealed carry without knowing to whom it is being issued, and, if issued, quit half-stepping: the more guns out there the more quiet the crooks and terrorists!)*
  • * (all inside parenthesis  – and within the dash in the first paragraph – mine but the meat of the issue is from AAR. I most heartily agree, though I expect never to see an America where each of us is deemed capable of ending all life on the planet with out backpack tactical bethe-cycle thermonuclear or cobalt device.  That last a long jest: but the kindest, most welcoming and humane I ever noticed I was being treated away from home was a long walk from 6 p.m. to 4 a.m. across Tucson, Arizona, from Hispanic Southwest to Anglo Northeast.  The only stern question was “You concealed, man?” No, I’m from Florida, I replied.  Seems the only real sin was walking about with a concealed firearm in that town or that state in the late 1980s.  I got offered beer and herb at one stop at a Little League field where mostly Hispanics were picnicking with family and pals while the kids played ball.  Nearly everyone, male and female, Black, Brown, White packed a punch on their hips along that outfield fenceline.  Never safer. Never more welcomed. Never more to be if we let our politicians scare themselves into bowing before the bullies and bastids we sometimes let in amongst us without proper vetting.)

Your Smile Melts My Heart (from Poetry Passion)

Your smilemelts my heart …whenever it be,wherever it be. Because, you’re always special to me! I miss you … when you’re not with me, 75 more words

via Your Smile — POETRY PASSION


Video Poem: I Am Van Gogh — POETRY PASSION

I Am Van Gogh. Click this link to hear the poem, I Am Van Gogh. The post Video Poem: I Am Van Gogh appeared first on POETRY PASSION.

via Video Poem: I Am Van Gogh — POETRY PASSION


how garden grows — POETRY PPASSION

Originally posted on my website, Hands In the Garden. Come visit! lamp,drooling dull, sunk seat,cushioning lows- lead plasteredlashes, eyesdrooping ’round… 24 more words

via how garden grows — POETRY PASSION


A Long(ish) Tale About A Little Twist In Time For Christmas

Ed Kosky really didn’t start it.  And he’s not the first to go and shout from the room-bottoms that canard I am a patron if not a passable example of Saint Nicholas-hood – he, after all is patronized by thieves and those stooled to the rouge pay me not even half-vast sums simply to ignore their trade.  But The Righteous Reverend-Admiral and backseat-bomber beyond compare, the now-safely-retired Oldest Math Teacher in the Unknown and Known Universe, Ed Kosky, SHS, Canoe U,  and I forgot which seminary has forced my formerly clean hand.

So, thus the tale of the rightful Sinder Klaus.  Serves Kosky right when hordes of tykes, mommies in tow trailing sundry rolling pins and custard pans, come chase him down in righteous indignation for what I am about to (again! but this time salaciously and with malice a-five-thought) reveal to an innocent public.

Once Upon A Time…all good fairy tails and Marine Corps Sea Stories begin that way when delivered for public consumption.  In private reveals, a Marine begins his tale: This is no shit!  What I am about – with just a few more ambling pres – to lay on you cats and kitties is the true story of how a Teutonic demi-diety who got co-opted into the Roman Catholic pantheon of Saints – the better to sweep up more and more dues-paying, tithing hopers – by turning a dastardly punisher into a serene gifter of goodies to all the well-behaved boys and girls of England.  Our tale begins in Spain.

During the long night as Christian Spain began to shrug off the yoke of Berber tribesmen and Arab co-religionists who forced The Song of Roland into our Western Heritage, with names like Rodrigo – also El Cid – and others to cleanse much of Iberia to make it safe for kings and princes and even more importantly to we Americans a Queen with jewels and an Italian who lusted after what those jewels might buy, there remained abroad in Andalusia and Aragon and elsewhere a smattering of those cross-Gibraltar’s straits Berber tribesmen and the remnants of the Moorish tribes that had subdued – but in reality ruled in great humility and welcome for both Christians and Jews throughout the land.  Isabella and her boyfriend Ferdinand got rid of both the Muslims and that notion that learned Moors, Christians and Jews could get along just fine.  But before that happy day there was something called We Got No Money And We Must Invade Somewhere To Get It.

So Spain shipped out for not just once but many times to tackle not only England but also The Low Countries – The Netherlands. Holland and such.  That is where our story truly begins.

Along with the sailors and soldiers and hidalgos hoping for lucre were trusted and loyal servants of darker portions of melanin – the Berbers and The Moors – who had been tamed over the centuries since The Return of Christendom to Iberia. These bereft tribesmen of Allah had few chances to make rials enow to tide them over until Spain sent its sons to the few schools they still had so each Yuletide the Spanish hidalgos would hire the black moors as they were known to come to their mansions on hills outside of town and whip the snot out of the Spanish boys and girls to get them to behave properly during the holy season…or else they would get not even the equivalent of lumps of coal in their stockings Christmas Morning (why coal? Beats me.  Some places here in America during The Great Depression sent its kids along railroad tracks gleaning fallen coal from locomotive colliers, so coal would be of value, no?).

But, now, Spain had The Low Countries.  And during the 400 years of Spanish rule, the Spanish kept their Christmas tradition of whaling the tar out of young Spaniard children each December.  Hey, it kept the kids’ warm and all without using valuable coal. Apparently The Dutch though the idea capital and the punishment ensued.

Then the worst thing that could happen happened.  Spain lost Holland.  So, back to the old sod, right?  Pretty much.  But the plot sickens.  Seems The English – now calling themselves British after a map someone found calling Albion and Erie The British Isles – ran out of kings and queens.  Them Limeys are tough on royalty.  So England cast an encouraging eye on their natural allies and had to reject that notion immediately.  So they cast the other eye onto The Low Countries, shopping about for a suitable pair of monarchs available to take over payments at great rates with crumpets and cream every July during Wimbledon.  The English and a pair of married muckety-mucks from The House of Orange which had led the way in bum-rushing The Spanish back to their own patch dickered and dickored and came up with a plan.  William of Orange and his bride Mary of Orange would lose the fruit and become William & Mary and have a school for ruffians in the outback of Virginia named after them.

But Bill and his gal both knew they had become – as did their forebears – in All Things Spanish, especially about flogging their kids every time someone mentioned Christ’s Birth.  “Hey, Mar,” Bill yelled across the hall back in Holland, “You know we won’t be able to keep the hired Black help when we go to England.  Those Brits never would understand.  They are all a nation of shop keepers and we’ll just have to put up with that and ditch the beatings and the beaters.” Mary acknowledged the truth of her husband’s trenchant treatise.

“”But I so like beating the little ones, dear,” she wailed.  What shall we do.  We can not have a proper Sinter Claus – (the combination of Cinder because it is Black – and Claus or Klaus from The Germans next door) – so our people will be sorely vexed, and I have no idea what to do to keep us happy and the miserable Brits at bay!”

Then Bill had a stroke.  And a Genius emerged.  “Say, hon,” he said, “Why’nt we change Sinter Claus into something that will make the English happy.  We’ll call him Santa Claus and have him give gifts each Christmas instead of beatings.  And we’ll put a sales tax of two percent on each gift bought throughout the realm and make ourselves damn rich!”

“I knew when I consented to marrying you instead of The Kaiser I had made the right choice,” disremembered Mary.  “Now, quick. Get me a switch and I’ll warm your spindly legs and backside.”


(From Tony Single) Teti-à-Tête (With Tony) #9 — unbolt me

ACT 23 SCENE 2 BELLY FLOP Tati is hanging upside down in gravity boots. Tony looks on while eating from a plate of pumpkin scones. TONY: Are the stomach crunches really necessary? TATI: Are whipped cream and chocolate drops really necessary? Tony stops mid-chew. TONY: Well, that just ruined it all for me. […]

via Teti-à-Tête (With Tony) #9 — unbolt me