BREXIT!

  Apparently the people in Britain voted to leave the EU, and the statist are in a tizzy, "How dare the great unwashed go against its betters and leave."  I think the average Brit got tired of the edicts coming out of Brussels from the nameless bureaucrats, I heard that they were trying to force the Brits to give up their tea kettles due to carbon footprint and the mandates about the size of the vegetables that can only be sold and other such nonsense.  I also am sure the unfettered immigrations was telling on the average Brit where they were forced to take more "rapeugees" from the middle east where they would take the social benefits and refuse to assimilate to the British culture.  I think they saw what is going on with Germany and the Scandinavian countries and that is giving them pause.  It didn't help the cause when "Dear Leader" lectured them and made threats about they going to the back of the "que" in dealings with the United States.  Also Hillary made the same threats as they inserted themselves into the domestic dealings of another country and that pissed off quite a few of the English citizens.  The Donald told the British that "it is their decision to make and we will support whatever decision the citizens make."  I think this elevated the Donald's standing in the world...except with the statists of course.  The British need to get their backbone in order and become British again rather than "European".  The British have a hard road ahead of them as they have to decide to reclaim their birthright again and shrug off the mantle of death called "Multiculturalism."
and become uniquely British.

"Brooklyn Mike" Part 1

    

This quote from Voltaire I use a lot when it comes to islam.

This story is from Matt Bracken,  I have read his books and he is a 2nd amendment activist and he has walked the walk.  I have read his books and I do enjoy them. I picked this story from WRSA.  I will post the 2nd part of this story tomorrow. There are 4 parts to this story.   It is a very sobering thought of the near future.


Piss Christ? Piss Koran!
Part One: Dark Till Dawn
Mike Dolan came out of the subway, hit the sidewalk and set out down the west side of 6th Avenue with a purposeful stride. Midtown Manhattan never truly sleeps, particularly just before a Monday morning, but compared to what it would be like in a couple of hours, it was geared way down. No tourists yet, mostly delivery trucks and vans. All lanes were northbound, because it was 6th Avenue.
Mike was showered and clean shaven, every item on him and in his possession carefully considered. The white hard hat on his head was the real deal. He wore a gray polo shirt with the embroidered black-and-yellow logo of a crane manufacturer above the pocket. Both items were gifts from old friends. The black cargo-pocket work pants over his Red Wing construction boots were practically new. An iPhone in an armored carrier was clipped to the black nylon rigger’s belt on his right hip. A silver tape measure was next to a small black flashlight on his left. On his back was a compact but heavy pack, also black. In his right hand he carried a small black tool bag, and he held a folding aluminum clipboard case in his left. On the F-Train over from Queens, another early riser had gestured toward Mike’s hard hat, and asked him if the strike was over. Mike just mumbled something about safety inspectors never getting a day off.
After a career spent pounding bolts hanging the high steel, it felt strange for him to be wearing a white hard hat for his trip into Manhattan. The white hard hat and the crane-logo polo shirt were just a disguise for his mission. Like his father before him, Mike was a union man, from the time he got out of the Army, until he’d retired a few years earlier. The New York Ironworkers Local Union 461 had carried him all the way through his family-raising years. Now, the kids were gone, and his wife had passed away.
Mike had always worn a scuffed-to-hell red hard hat with an American flag sticker on the front. Shiny white hard hats were for management pukes way down in the trailers, and for inspectors and reporters and a few other random assholes who would occasionally make an appearance at nose-bleed height. Well, maybe they weren’t all assholes. Some of them were pretty cool, like the construction company honcho who had given him the white hard hat right off his head on the job site parking lot, and offered Mike a salaried position with his big and growing company. That was a line Mike Dolan couldn’t cross—he’d be a union man until the day he died—but it was a welcome gesture. And now that white hard hat was on his head.
After walking a few city blocks south from the subway entrance, the black edge of the forty-story BCA building became visible across the avenue. The BCA building was one of Mike’s two targets, but it was not his destination. The black granite tower was the national headquarters of the BCA television network, including the studios of BCA World News. Another block down 6th, and Mike passed in front of another impressive skyscraper, the fifty-story Grand Hotel. Cabs were waiting under the portico; it was the usual scene remembered from a thousand pre-dawn trips into the city. Hustlers, pimps and low-lifes of every stripe, who were just ending their nights, passed worker bees trudging the other way toward their daily grinds.
While he was approaching 53rd Street, Mike looked around and counted at least four cameras. It didn’t matter. He knew he’d been on film from the time he’d gotten onto the subway. If his mission succeeded, his identity would probably be out anyway. The guy on the F-Train who had asked him about the strike would be giving TV interviews by the twelve o’clock news. So what? It wouldn’t change anything.
Mike’s destination was just across 53rd Street. The southwest corner of the intersection was the home of the forty-five story Bank of Europe building. The corner of the building was set far enough back from the street corner so that in normal times, there was enough space around its main street entrance for a plaza with a big statue, a fountain, and benches extending most of the way down 53rd. But not now. Now this extra space was blocked off from the public as a temporary construction site. Orange plastic barricades were set up along the 53rd Street side of the bank building, leaving only a narrow space near the curb for pedestrians. Just behind the line of orange barricades was a fence made of temporary chain-link sections covered with green fabric.

The barriers were there to keep people away from a tower crane that was being assembled on the 53rd street side of the bank building. Something big and heavy needed to be lifted 600 feet up to the roof, and the way they were going to get it up there was with a temporary crane. But the tower—and the horizontal hammerhead crane on top of it—were only halfway up the side of the bank building. The strike had stopped all Manhattan construction jobs last week. At this temporary work site, there would be no union members walking a picket line. The crane job was just shut down, and it would be forgotten until the dispute was settled, probably in a week or less.
After crossing 53rd, Mike turned right and walked along the line of orange barricades and fencing halfway to 7th Avenue, where they made a ninety-degree left turn and terminated against the side of the building. The dark fabric covering the fencing cast a shadow from the nearest street light across the plastic barricades. There was nobody in sight, so Mike casually swung his legs over the low barricade and went prone, disappearing in the gap between the orange plastic and the fencing. The fabric was just hanging loose at the bottom, easily pushed out of the way. Mike’s black tool bag was already unzipped. Heavy-duty wire cutters clipped the temporary joint where the galvanized pipes of the last two fence sections were sloppily wired together. He only needed to push their bottoms apart to slip through, and he was inside.
Behind the fencing there was little need for security, because there was nothing small or light enough for a thief to steal. Whatever had to be lifted to the roof would not arrive until the tower crane was fully assembled and ready, and it was only halfway up. The tower grew twelve feet at a time by pushing the top section up with the enormous hydraulic pumps in the jack-up climber unit up near the top, and then sticking in another tower section that had just been lifted up by the crane.

Most of the barricaded space along 53rd street was taken up with the next half-dozen tower sections that would go up. Individually, they were giant yellow cubes made of four vertical load-bearing round pipes joined by a grid of horizontal and diagonal cross struts. Mike walked between these sections and the building, and went straight to the base of the tower. A steel hand ladder was welded to each section on the side nearest the building, which was twenty feet away. Crouching there the dark, Mike removed leather work gloves from his gym bag and put them on. The gym bag and his hinged aluminum clipboard went into his backpack, and when he slung it back on, this time he fastened the chest strap. His hard hat’s liner suspension was already tight enough for climbing.
Mike had been out of the game for few years, and he’d lost much of his old strength, but climbing was still second nature to him. He rested and caught his breath after he passed each section. At an easy pace, it took him less than half an hour to climb the twenty stories up to where the horizontal hammerhead crane formed a giant T across the tower. Until the strike was over, this was as high as it was going to get. The load jib, the 150-foot cantilevered-boom end of the hammerhead, rested parallel to the twentieth floor of the bank building, aiming east toward 6th Avenue. The shorter counterweight jib aimed the other way from the tower, back toward 7th.
The standard square tower sections within the climber unit ended below the horizontal crane, and transitioned into a succession of moving structural elements, hydraulic lines, steel cables, conduits, and welded pipes and beams. It was a little tricky climbing the grab-irons around the slewing-ring machinery that would eventually allow the crane to turn in circles above the building, but it was nothing that an old steel-monkey like Mike couldn’t navigate blindfolded in the dark. He wasn’t blindfolded, but it was dark. The yellow paint helped him to find his hand and foot holds, reflecting what light was available.
Mike climbed past the glass-enclosed cubicle where the crane operator would sit. He had great respect for his union brothers, the Operating Engineers, and the hammerhead crane operators were at the very top of that game. Or, as the Ironheads kidded them, they were the only OEs allowed up that high—but only if they were safely tucked inside their little steel boxes with the windows all around. But the truth was, the entire show, down on the street and up in the sky, all ran at the speed of the individual Tonka jockey at the top of the tower.
Once he was above the operator’s cab, Mike was finally at the level of the 150-foot horizontal jib, which was made of three primary load-bearing pipe sections. They were each about eight inches in diameter, with two on the bottom, and one on the top. These three main pipes were each about five feet apart from the other two, creating a stacked triangle that was held rigidly together by a succession of welded struts that were about five inches in diameter. The pair of pipes at the bottom supported the trolley that brought the lifting hook in and out. The single load-bearing pipe at the top was supported by stout guy-wires that extended back to the “cat” at the very top of the tower, and then down again to the counterweight jib at the opposite end of the crane. Like the vertical tower sections, the whole crane was painted bright yellow. It was clean, too, because it had only been up for a short time.
There were no lights burning inside of the twentieth-floor offices, so Mike decided to travel out the jib on the building side. On the odd chance that some janitor or early-bird spotted him, they’d think nothing of it, not after noting his white hard hat and work clothes. He put both boots on the bottom pipe nearest the building, and leaned inward to place his gloved hands on the single top pipe. It was an easy side-stepping shuffle, just maneuvering his legs over the connecting struts as he passed them.
If he slipped, it was 250 feet straight down to the street, but he was used to that view between his toes from decades as an Ironworker. He soon found the rhythm, sliding his right boot out, then bringing his left over, and doing the same with his gloved hands on the top pipe. Nothing to it. The Ironheads would often say easy money to one another in circumstances like that. They’d hook, shackle, bolt or pin something to something else, and get paid damn good money for it. The only catch was, it was usually hundreds of feet up in the air. And today, money had nothing to do with it.
At the end, 150 feet out from the tower, the two bottom pipes had a panel of expanded metal decking welded horizontally between them. This grating was stiffened with stout angle iron at each end, also welded to the two bottom load-bearing pipes. This provided a stable working platform for men making repairs and adjustments to the trolley machinery and other gear that lived near the end of the jib, but mainly underneath it, out of Mike’s way. He had spotted this grating from the street with his binoculars, and he had guessed that it would make him a secure roost where he would have an eagle’s-eye view of both of his targets.

The top pipe was neck-high to Mike when he was standing straight up on the grated deck. The end of the jib extended a little way beyond the northeast corner of the bank building, so that Mike could see up and down 6th Avenue, with Central Park to the north, and the Empire State Building to the south. The metal grate gave him five feet by five feet of secure footing, with the connecting struts making good hand holds all around. It felt just like back in the old days, but without his buddies hollering their usual Monday-morning banter from beam to beam. The greatest guys in the world, bar none, doing the best jobs in the world. He’d just aged out of it. It was a young man’s game, and Mike Dolan was no longer young. Sixty wasn’t old, but it was too old for Ironworkers.

Anybody in the corner offices of the Bank of Europe building was going to have much too close of a view of him, but he’d planned for that. He took off his pack, crouching on the deck, and removed an old Army poncho that had bungee cords attached to the grommets at its corners, all of it stowed in its own plastic bag to prevent snags. Mike secured the green poncho to pipes and struts on the side of the crane toward the building, but a little ways back from the grated platform at the end. Mike wanted to be able to see up and down 6th Avenue, but he didn’t want the NYPD aiming lenses or anything else at him from fifteen yards behind his right shoulder. His poncho lean-to shanty blocked that exposed angle from view.
He stared at the BCA building, his secondary target. It was less than a football field away on the other side of 6th Avenue. The black slab blocked half of his view toward the east, and reminded him of the monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey. 53rd Street ran along its base on the north side. Just a few degrees to the left and twice the distance away, on the other side of 53rd, was Mike’s primary target: the five-story Modern Art Museum. Both of his targets were in plain sight, and he had not been stopped or hassled even once, not counting the guy on the subway. Mike looked at his glowing digital watch: it was 5:17 in the morning, on Monday, the 22nd of August. He had less than an hour to wait before he made his first call.
Time to sit down, relax, and get ready. He removed the padded stadium seat cushion that had been in his pack against his back, and slid it under his butt. Expanded metal grating was painful to sit on, any old Ironhead knew that. Then he remembered his polo shirt and hard hat. His beef today had nothing to do with the construction trades, so he took off his brain bucket. He’d worn the crane company’s logo polo shirt just for a disguise, in case he was questioned on his way, so he pulled that off too, and wrapped it around the white hard hat.
Underneath, Mike was wearing a white t-shirt with a big American flag across the front. The gray polo had been streaked with grime where he’d brushed against greasy wire cables on his way around the slewing ring, but the white t-shirt was still spotless.
While it grew light, he took out his compact 8X20 Zeiss binoculars. Binos had often saved him a long trip out on the beams just to verify one critical detail or another. Since Mike had retired, he’d made it a habit to bring his binos along when he was in the city. He was always scanning the skylines, watching for moving cranes, and for his brother Ironworkers who built the city. That’s why he’d been carrying his binoculars last Friday, when he’d noticed the chance juxtaposition of the BCA building, the Modern Art Museum, and the half-erected tower crane across 6th Avenue from both of them. He’d been on this mission since that light bulb had switched on in his mind, and three days later, he was sitting on the end of the crane.
Even before full daylight, with his binos Mike could see that a line of police barricades were set up on the street in front of the glass front wall and doors of the Modern Art Museum. Police cars were already lined up in ranks on both sides of 53rd. There was even a horse trailer, for the mounted police, and a flatbed with more barricade sections. New York’s Finest had crowd control at street demonstrations down to a science, and understood the importance of getting to the scene well before the expected angry mobs.
At ten minutes before six o’clock Monday morning, Mike removed a pre-paid flip-phone from a zip-lock bag that contained a half dozen more. He entered the memorized number for the radio station office line of WNYR, New York Radio, FM 101.5, and 1070 on the AM dial. The number was also written in his notebook, but he didn’t need to look it up. The phone rang and rang, but it was finally picked up on about the twentieth ring.
“What?” asked a male voice.
“Is this the radio station? WNYR?”
“Yeah, it is, but this isn’t the call-in line. You’ll have to call back on the other number.”
“I need to speak to Jerry Conroy.”
“That’s why we have a call-in line, pal.”
“It’s urgent—tell him it’s a newsmaker. Tell him he’s got a big scoop, if he wants it.”
“Yeah, sure. Take a hike, pal.”
“Listen, pal, don’t blow this deal. This is the biggest scoop that Jerry ever had. If you hang up, I’ll call WABC and give them the story. Then, when this is all over, I’ll tell Jerry that you hung up on me.”
“Okay, that was pretty good. I’m listening. What do you got?”
“Jerry was talking about the Serrano exhibit last Friday. You know, ‘Piss Christ,’ and all that deal. It’s supposed to open in four hours at the Modern Art Museum. Only it’s not going to open. Tell Jerry that you have somebody on the horn who says that the Serrano exhibit is not going to open at ten. Just tell him that.”
Mike had selected Jerry Conroy because his four-hour talk radio program began a few minutes after six, and Mike had surmised that the radio host would already be somewhere around the station, preparing for his show. The Jerry Conroy Show on WNYR didn’t have top ratings, but they were decent, and its signal blanketed the New York metro area.
Conroy was younger than Mike, around fifty. According to the biography on his website, Conroy had been a Villanova graduate, a Marine Corps captain in Kuwait during Desert Storm, a sometimes lawyer and a sometimes politician, a commentator for BCA News, and finally, a talk radio host. Reading between the lines of what he had heard on his radio program, Mike deduced that Jerry Conroy was divorced, had grown kids somewhere, and was to one degree or another a lapsed Catholic like himself. And he had deduced that Conroy wasn’t afraid to take a drink, or to raise his voice, or to swing a fist.
And they were both Micks, there was that…
After a minute of watching the morning shadows shifting and lifting far down 53rd Street to the east, a familiar voice came out of Mike’s flip phone. “Conroy here. What about the Serrano exhibit? Make it quick, I’m in a hurry.”
“The Serrano exhibit is not going to open at ten.”
“And why is it not going to open at ten?”
“Because I’m going to stop it.”
A pause. “And just how are you going to stop it?”
“Jerry, do you know where the Modern Art Museum is? The MAM?” Mike pronounced it so that it rhymed with ham.
“Of course I do.”
“Then you know that the MAM is down the block and across the street from the BCA building, where you used to work. So here’s the deal, Jerry: if you still have any contacts at BCA, you’ll want to call them right now. Tell them to look out any window on the twentieth floor that faces west. The twentieth floor. Tell them to look at the yellow crane that’s set up on the north side of the Bank of Europe building. Ask them what they see on the end of the crane. I’ll wait. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re joking, right? This is a hoax, right?”
“No hoax, Jerry. I promise you, it’s no hoax. So if you want to get back on television, here’s your big chance.”
“Don’t go anywhere.”
As if he could. This time, Mike had to wait for almost four minutes before he heard Jerry’s voice again. By then, it was two minutes after six, nearly air time for the Jerry Conroy Show. Conroy said, “Are you out of your mind? What are you going to do, jump?”
“No, Jerry, I’m not going to jump. At least, not without help, and so far, I’m all by my lonesome. Now, here’s the situation. From where I’m sitting, I have a perfect view of the front of the MAM, and if the MAM opens up at ten for the Serrano exhibit, then I’m going to do something that will make everybody wish that they hadn’t.”
Pause. “You’re going to do what, exactly?”
“I’m going to stop the Serrano exhibit from opening, that’s what. Now, you tell your old friends at BCA that they have a head start, and for sure they have the best camera shot, but it won’t take long for the other networks to get crews up on the other buildings around here, like the Grand Hotel I’m looking at right across 53rd. So if BCA wants to scoop the competition, they’ll have to get moving. Just tell them that.”
“They won’t go for it. It’s against their policy to film jumpers.”
“Jerry, I already told you, I’m not a jumper, and yes, they will go for it. They’re not called media whores for nothing, right? You used to work there, didn’t you? So you tell them that there’s going to be a big news story right across 6th Avenue, and they’ll want to get a camera crew up on the twentieth floor ASAP. That is, if they want the scoop. Otherwise, I’m hanging up, and calling WABC. It’s all the same to me.”
“Okay, okay—just wait a minute.”
While he waited, Mike grabbed the smart phone from his belt and brought up BCA national news. The lead story at the top of the hour was a hurricane hitting Mexico. He set the iPhone on the grating, didn’t like the angle, then he placed the hard hat wrapped in the gray shirt just past his left knee, and leaned the iPhone against it. With the screen tilted just right, it was easy to watch, yet it would be invisible to the cameras across the avenue.
Mike had a stack of ball caps in his pack, and sunglasses. He didn’t want to make it too easy for the BCA cameramen (or anybody else) to read his face. 9-11 was embroidered in white across the front of his first cap, which was Navy blue, but the 11 was made to resemble the two World Trade Center towers. Below the 9-11, the cap said NEVER FORGET.
When Jerry came back on the line he said, “Just tell me that you’re not going to do anything crazy. You don’t have a gun, or a bomb, or anything like that, do you?”
“No gun, and no bomb, and I’m not going to jump. I promise, I really do. It’s nothing like that. But what I do have, Jerry, is a special weapon that will stop the Serrano exhibit from opening. Just let me know when BCA has a camera ready to roll, and we’re going to make news together.”
The radio host seemed distracted by then, half listening, carrying on multiple background conversations at once. Finally Conroy asked Mike, “Do you want to talk to somebody at BCA? Charlie Thorn is standing by to speak to you. I’m talking to his production team right now. They’re switching their lineup around because of you—the Serrano exhibit just moved to the top. You can call them, or they can call you. I have their numbers, if you want to call them. Or, I can patch you through, but the sound won’t be as good.”
“No, Jerry, I don’t want to talk to Charlie Thorn. I don’t want to talk to anybody at BCA. I just want to talk to you, so please, don’t hang up. And if I get disconnected, keep this line open, okay? I’ll call right back, but probably from another number.”
“Y-you don’t want to talk to Charlie Thorn?” Jerry Conroy sounded disbelieving, as if Mike had declined a private audience with the president, or the Pope.
“No, I don’t want to talk to Charlie Thorn. I just want to talk to you, Jerry.”
“All right, well, I’m here. What do you want to say?”
Mike Dolan knew that every word he spoke from that point on would be recorded for playback and careful study. “You know, Jerry, I’ve never called a talk show before, but I listen to yours a lot. And last week, on Friday, you asked why Christians never did anything about sacrilegious art, you know, when Muslims get so riled up by it. You were talking about the Serrano exhibit, and his ‘Piss Christ,’ and the ‘Dung Madonna,’ and all the other anti-religious art that the liberals seem to love so much. Then, it’s our sacred right to free expression, right? You asked why Christians just take it like sheep, when people get murdered over cartoons of Mohammed. And then everybody just goes on like that’s perfectly normal, like that’s just what everybody expects.
“You were talking about how we’re not allowed to say anything negative about Islam, not one single word, or bombs will explode, but anybody can say anything about Christians and the Jews, and we’re supposed to just turn the other cheek and suck it up. But the Muslims—oh, no! They’ll chop the heads off of little kids over a stupid cartoon of Mohammed, that’s what you said. They’ll chop the heads off of little kids. Well, that got me thinking, and one thing led to another, and, well…here I am.” Mike paused to clear his throat. “So here’s the deal, Jerry: if the Serrano exhibit opens at ten o’clock, then I’m going to create another art masterpiece on live television, right here. Performance art, or you might—”
Conroy cut in. “They say they have a camera rolling. Can you see it?”
“No, I can’t see it.” In the early light, the heavily-tinted west-facing windows of the black BCA tower were totally opaque, except where random offices were already open for business and lit inside, giving the side of the building the appearance of an enormous cross-word puzzle. The BCA news crew would want it dark inside the office they’d chosen for the camera work, to avoid reflections off their windows.
“Well, they can see you,” said Jerry. “Hey, what’s your name, anyway?”
“My name is Mike. Brooklyn Mike. You said the camera was rolling?”
“That’s what they tell me, but I’m not there.”
Mike removed a gray cylinder the size of a spray paint can from his pack. It had a hinged handle on the side, and a transverse pin like a hand grenade’s on top. There was just a lazy breeze wafting up 6th Avenue toward Central Park. He yanked the ring, let the handle fly, and scarlet smoke erupted and billowed furiously and streamed across the intersection over toward the Grand Hotel. He set the smoke grenade on the left side of the platform, downwind. Mike had wrapped it in gray duct tape, so that the telephoto lenses would not be able to determine its origins. Like a lot of stuff, it had come off a construction site. The smoke sputtered out in half a minute, the pink cloud disappearing up the avenue.
He kept an eye on his iPhone, and in a moment, the Mexican hurricane was replaced with BREAKING NEWS. Charlie Thorn came on as the BCA morning anchor, and then the screen changed, and Mike saw himself in tight close-up, framed by the three yellow pipe girders and connecting struts of the crane around him. From the end-on, it looked like he was sitting inside a floating pyramid made of yellow pipes. Red smoke curled away toward the north. Red smoke, yellow crane, a guy in a white t-shirt with an American flag, wearing a 9-11 ball cap on his head, and sunglasses over his eyes. Even on his smart phone screen, Mike could see that it was beautiful composition. BCA News had beaten their competition to the punch, so come what may, they owned the story, and they would never avert their treasured front-row camera gaze.
Mike turned his head downward, then counted the seconds until he saw the matching movement on his iPhone. He was on at least a ten-second network delay, so that they could cut away in case he unexpectedly blew himself up, or hanged himself, or jumped. Which, of course, he had absolutely no intention of doing.
To Mike, the red smoke was just eye candy, something irresistible for the BCA News producers and directors. On his smart phone, he could see that BCA had gone to a split screen, with a talking Charlie Thorn sharing space with the mystery lunatic perched on the end of a crane, straight across the avenue from their Manhattan corporate headquarters. Mike had a set of ear buds in case he decided to use them later, but for now, he didn’t care what Thorn was saying. He was just hijacking their network cameras for the video portion of his mission. The Jerry Conroy Show would provide the soundtrack. The BCA television and WNYR radio engineers could work out the synchronization between them. Everybody else could share their feeds.
Glancing down at his iPhone in order to be sure that he was still airing on BCA, Mike pulled a clear plastic two-liter bottle full of a pale amber liquid from his pack, and set it to his right side in front of his pack. To save space at the bottom of his pack, the juice bottle had been nested into a square one-gallon ice cream container. Mike set the translucent bucket on the grating between his knees. His legs were spread, and the soles of his work boots were pointed straight at his target audience. Then he withdrew a green hard-covered book from his pack, held it up quite steady for a few seconds, and then he set it into the empty ice cream bucket. An inch of it was still visible above the top edge of the plastic tub. Another glance down at his iPhone showed Mike that he was still live on BCA.
Then Mike pulled a spiral-bound notebook from his gym bag. He had bought the thickest black Sharpie marker that he could find, the kind with a wide, square tip. If they jammed his phones, if they took him off the radio, Mike wasn’t going to quit his mission. In that case, he would create visual text messages for the cameras. There would always be cameras. In fifteen minutes, there would be a dozen. In an hour, a hundred.
Back on his kitchen table in Brooklyn, Mike had already hand-printed a few messages. He opened the notebook toward the BCA building, and held it up with his left hand. Then, with his right hand, he raised the unlabeled bottle full of apple juice above the bucket, and the green book.
In block letters across both pages it read:
Piss Christ?
Piss Koran!
Editor’s Note: “Part Two: The First Hour” coming soon…

Submission and the forbidden word

  This is a tongue in cheek but unfortunately there is a lot of truth in this cartoon.  The policies coming out of D.C on the Potomac strikes me as surreal.  It is almost like I am watching an episode of "The Outer Limits".   A radicalized Muslim kills a bunch of LGBT folks in a club and instead of blaming radical Islam, they go and blame guns.  The funny thing is that the shooter passed all the background checks, had a FL permit, worked Homeland security and had a chip on his shoulder because he was discriminated against because he was a muslim.  Well if he had been a white male Hetro Christian he would have been fired.  The F.B.I investigated this guy 2 times for his ties to radical islam and each time he was passed because he was a muslim.  In the name of political correctness, the F.B.I let him go for fear of getting a lawsuit from C.A.I.R or some of the other islamic groups.  Now we have the usual democrats from "Dear Leader" and the presumptive Team Donk candidate immediately spout off about "evil Guns".  Not even waiting for the bodies to cool, they immediately start dancing on the bodies of the victims in the shooting.  Remember this is the same administration that in Bengazi, rather than tell the American People the truth, that this was an Islamic attack.  They go and blame a video, and got the director locked up on trumped charges rather than say it was a terror attack.

   I think the left has a problem, 2 of their "victim groups" collided as Old NFO coined a phrase and the left don't know what to do so they went with their standby....blame the guns.  I have been told that we need to have a national discussion on guns by some of my leftist friends and my response is " So y'all can talk down to me and lecture me and other gun owners.  It won't be a discussion, y'all expect us to acquaise to your diktats and submit.  There will be no discussions, whenever the left talks about a discussion..it means that we will hear "common Sense gun restrictions and we need to compromise.  Compromise what?   We are the ones giving up, what are the left giving up?..not a damn thing.  Y'all ask for the sun and will accept the moon because in the future, y'all will ask for even more...all in the name of being "reasonable".  Well screw that, I am done with being "reasonable", I am done with being blamed for all the worlds ills, I am done with having to be treated like a modern day leper.  Well screw all of them....I ain't giving up nothing and I told them, " you want to lead a stack into my house to get them....Knock yourself out.  Give it your best shot.
    

We are going back to the policies of the present administration, for some reason "Dear Leader" has a problem mentioning the word "radical islam" even going and having the DOJ release the redacted 911 tapes and it was done so poorly that it made it obvious that the administration has its head in the sand.  After the firestorm of protest about the blatant way of protecting the reputation of Islam, the DOJ was forced to release the original tapes.  It seems that administration is more concerned about islam rather than protecting the American people.  This shows a serious disconnect going on.  I believe that the people surrounding Dear Leader are academics and have no concept of the real world and the ramifications.   We "dirt people" live in the real world and we have to deal with all the crappy policies that come out of that ivory tower called Washington D.C. 

Monday Music "Love Train" by the O'Jays

   I have always liked the "O"jays", they and a lot of the acts during the time epitomized the "Sound of Motown", it had a bit of rock, soul, R&B and blues.  Something that is uniquely American.  I don't know if that kind of music would survive in todays music environment. 

"Love Train" is a hit single by The O'Jays, written by Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff. Released in 1972, it reached number one on both the R&B Singles and the Billboard Hot 100, in February and March 1973 respectively, and was certified gold by the RIAA.
It was The O'Jays' first and only number-one record on the U.S. pop chart. "Love Train" entered the Hot 100's top 40 on 27 January 1973. The song's lyrics of unity mention a number of countries, including England, Russia, China, Egypt and Israel, as well as the continent of Africa.
Recorded at Philadelphia's Sigma Sound Studios, the house band MFSB provided the backing. Besides its release as a single, "Love Train" was the last song on The O'Jays' album Back Stabbers.

     The music video shows a group of people forming a chain near a railroad station, while at the same time, some railroad cars are shown in motion. Throughout the video, more people join in the chain, which they call the "Love Train". It was most likely filmed around the Northeast Corridor, as Long Island Rail Road MP75 railcars appear throughout the music video (in which the words "LONG ISLAND" are clearly visible), as well as Amtrak railcars and other railcars. Not much is known about the music video, although it was recorded in 1973.  I am still trying to locate it

Happy Dad's Day!

This is to all the Guys and Gals that go above the rest because they care and want to do the right thing for their kids and other kids too!.   It is our job to teach the values to the new generation, this is our legacy.

Just came from another Road trip, will post some pictures soon!

Riding the Trump Train?

 I support Trump but I do have misgivings, I am not firmly on the Trump train, I understand why people are riding it.  I see on many FB feeds that people are seeing Trump to fix all the countries ills.  I am not sure any one man can do that.  The country ills are many and varied caused by many things and I don't know if one person can do it especially with the massive pushback that he will receive from both team Donk and the establishment GOP.

I clipped this from Here. 

I’m not a wishy-washy or indecisive person but jumping aboard the Trump Train has, at times, felt more like riding an emotional roller coaster than an iron horse. One day I’m the person talking others into voting for Donald Trump and then, just when I’m ready to throw my full weight behind him, he’ll say something or I’ll read an article or have a conversation with someone, and I start second-guessing myself.
I am not alone. Millions of conservatives, who supported candidates other than Donald Trump but are committed to vote for the Republican nominee, suffer from this affliction. We understand what Trump is doing and what his appeal is -- and we wholeheartedly concur. But, we question his devotion to conservative principles and have concerns about how he will govern. We want to stand by our conservative convictions but we also want to be pragmatic. We aren’t #nevertrumpers. We will vote for Anyone But Hillary. We do not want to stay home on Election Day. We do not want a third-party candidate -- and we certainly don’t want to vote for Gary Johnson. We do not want this vote to go to the House. We do not want to do anything to hand a victory to Clinton. We want to vote for the most conservative candidate who can win -- and that clearly is Trump -- but we don’t want it on our shoulders if he turns out to be a dud.
The schemes of the #nevertrumpers do not appeal to us nor are they viable. Their never-ending quest for a better, more palatable candidate is at best a pipe dream. Their insistence that Trump will ruin the country, fails to acknowledge that that country is already long gone, has been decimated by eight years of Obama, and will never recover from a Hillary presidency. Their concern that Trump would usher in the death of the GOP is blind to the fact that the GOP is already in a death spiral. And their fantasies about some kind of spoiler candidate who would throw the vote to the House, is guaranteed to sound the death knell for the GOP and ensure that the 2018 elections are a bloodbath.
Even worse, they have put their playground politics ahead of national security by refusing to join forces with the one candidate who isn’t afraid to say Islamic. Radical. Jihad. If they truly believe that a Clinton back in the Oval Office, a Democrat-controlled Congress, and a Supreme Court stocked with young, healthy progressives will teach the rest of the GOP a lesson, then they should just buy a pitcher of Kool-Aid pitcher and get it over with: they are not Republicans or conservatives.
There was a time when we might have been somewhat sympathetic to some of the concerns expressed by the #nevertrumpers, but their relentless, tone deaf pushback has only served to antagonize, and drive us further into the embrace of Trump. A few examples will illustrate.
When Paul Ryan hemorrhages about Trump not being P.C., he sends a message to the millions backing Trump because of his anti-PC approach, that he really doesn’t have our six. Not only is Ryan doing the unthinkable and downright treasonous -- siding with the Democrat-Media Complex -- but he has become a general in the P.C. Army, wielding his cudgel of political correctness against…his own kin.
Then there is Romney, the Pusillanimous. After repeatedly failing to fight back about his wealth, women in binders, the 47%, and Obama’s lies about Benghazi, it turns out he’s more Romney, the Raging Pugilist -- only he’s throwing punches at the wrong guy. Add to that his comments about “trickle-down racism” and we are left with a man who has little regard for the people, doesn’t believe we can think for ourselves, and openly maligns Trump and his supporters as racists. With friends like that who needs Democrats.
While an entire cadre of writers at National Review fits the bill, Jay Nordlinger is this week’s stand out: he’s leaving the GOP because the GOP left him by allowing Trump to be the nominee. What rock was this self-proclaimed quintessential conservative hiding under when the Tea Party was agitating -- nay, begging -- for the GOP to adhere to conservative principles? Where was he the last 30 years when conservatives reluctantly voted for moderates like Dole, McCain, and Romney, and for some, both Bushes? What planet was this National Review sweetheart living on such that he missed the noise conservatives made whenever a candidate they supported turned out to be a quisling once inside the Beltway? Got Martha McSally?
The GOP left conservatism in the dust decades ago, but I guess Jay Nordlinger’s been too busy typing about being a true blue conservative to notice.
GOP leadership and punditry can ignore the people they ask for money, votes, and support, only for so long. They can water down conservatism only for so long. As some point the masses will rebel and that is happening with the ascendancy of Donald Trump.
But why do so many informed, intelligent conservatives support a guy who is so unpolished? So inarticulate? So inconsistent? So unprepared? Someone who, in the words of the Wall Street Journal’s Kimberly Strassel, is clearly winging it?
Conservatives and a significant part of the general voting public have tired of the polished, perfectly groomed candidate. Their handshakes and slick-talking don’t matter anymore. Their scripted talking points and sound bites are so rehearsed and predictable, as to be rendered meaningless.
And what did voting for the “most presidential” or “most conservative” candidate get us, anyway? An endless string of electoral heartbreaks. How many times can the average grassroots activist make personal sacrifices to get out the vote for a candidate who secretly harbors intentions to betray the very people who got him elected? We will not be jilted again.
Trump is the exact opposite of what we are used to. When it comes to messaging, conservatives are chronically cerebral with a long history of appealing to the rational brain as opposed to the emotional brain. Maybe Trump has the right idea: your average Joe doesn’t have time to decode a speech, read between the lines in a campaign ad, or research the finer points of policy. Appeal to the gut. It worked for Obama.
Maybe, we just want to believe that the person inhabiting the White House loves this country, will do his best to keep us safe, will work hard in the best interests of the majority of citizens, and will seek policies and a way to govern that balance the most amount of freedom with the least amount of intrusion. Maybe. It’s. Just. That. Simple.
Trump is the same guy we’ve always known -- not a prepackaged stiff in a suit, with perfect hair and a glimmering smile. A billionaire, yes, but the kind of guy you really could have a beer with. When he wears his hat, it looks at home on his head -- not out of place like Al Gore in lumberjack garb. And his speech is his -- not that fake preacher drawl Obama acquired halfway through his campaign or the “I ain’t no ways tired” other worldly thing that came out of Hillary’s mouth.
Sure, Trump has a shtick. But there is an authenticity to his shtick. It isn’t feigned. It isn’t newfangled. Donald’s political shtick today is the same shtick he had as a real estate developer, a casino builder, and a reality show host.
Truth be told, Trump is as much a cult of personality as Obama is -- and maybe that is how we win elections in the 21st Century. Obama had little to no real political experience, but was uber-successful in marketing the persona of Barack Obama. He accomplished little in Illinois and the Senate but he used his election successes to leap frog to the presidency at warp speed. He is the penultimate empty suit whose penchant to divide borders on OCD. He is a master at condescension and insulting his political rivals and their supporters, and is adept at sleight of mouth and doublespeak. He has no compunction manipulating everything that happens in the world to promote his agenda. But mostly, he is a marketing phenom who stirs emotions, instills pride, and promises something greater than each of us.
He does sound a bit like Trump. Obama might be a cocky empty suit with an answer to everything, but for Democrats, he was their empty suit. And he promised them Hope and Change.
Trump might very well be a brash political novice with answers that sometimes make us cringe, but he’s our political novice. And he’s promised to Make American Great (Again).
We’ve tried it the formulaic way time-after-time and things have only gotten worse. At least this time, if Trump wins the election but fails as president, we can shrug our shoulders and walk away knowing we gave it the old college try, but didn’t get hoodwinked in the process.
Trump is the mirror image of everything political that has been thrown our way -- he is not politically correct, he is not rehearsed, he is not scripted, he is himself, and he doesn’t care about the press. While he might overpromise and underdeliver, we’ve already factored that into the calculus. We know the risks of a Trump presidency and we’re okay assuming those risks rather than throwing in with the known risks of what a Hillary presidency will bring.
In a Venn Diagram world with conservatism one circle and Trump the other, a distinct area of overlap lies where the two intersect. Juxtaposed with Hillary’s circle, however, the circle with conservatism is lightyears apart.
I remain wishy-washy no more.
With 49 dead in Orlando, the Supreme Court hanging by a thread, a country more divided than ever, and an economy on the verge of collapse, it’s hard to imagine how the #nevertrumpers couldn’t see the obvious… unless, of course, they’ve already drunk the Kool-Aid. 

Pledging "Fealty" in the modern age

   I ran across this article Here and it is something to think about.   I have studied medieval history and pledging fealty to a lord or a cause was a lifetime commitment, you are pledging your life, family and whatever assets to your "lord".  it is different and deeper level of pledging to the cause.   It is something to think about especially when the drooling idiots on facebook keep trying to deflect the discussion from Islam to the EBR that is the bane of the leftist antigun crowd.

Word Origin and History for fealty

n.

c.1300, from Old French feauté "loyalty, fidelity; homage sworn by a vassal to his overlord; faithfulness," from Latin fidelitatem (nominative fidelitas) "fidelity," from fidelis "loyal, faithful" (see fidelity ).

Fealty and Modern Terrorism

During his deadly attack on a packed Orlando nightclub where he killed 50 people and wounded many more, Omar Mateen called 911.
On the recorded call, he pledge his loyalty to ISIS.
A day later, a terrorist outside of Paris, used Facebook livestreaming to pledge his loyalty to ISIS while stabbing a police chief and his wife to death.
What's going on?
The answer is that these pledges aren't simply expressions of loyalty, they are expressions of fealty, a much more powerful means of connection.
Fealty is something we haven't seen since the middle ages.  ISIS became capable of employing fealty once it rebuilt a barebones Caliphate and it is using it to transform modern terrorism.
To understand this, let's dig into fealty a bit.

• Fealty is a strict, lifelong pledge of loyalty from a vassal to a lord.  It's public and irreversible.  (If you watch Game of Thrones, it's why everyone hates the Kingslayer, even if he was justified in his actions)
  
• Fealty obligates the vassal to act in the service of the lord, without any need for specific direction.  It also gives the protection of the lord to the vassal (in a religious context, salvation and redemption).
  
• Fealty made it possible to build large, geographically segmented networks in a world without instant communications and rapid travel.   

Fealty allows ISIS to get around some of problems of modern open source insurgency.   For example:

• A potential terrorist shouldn't express fealty until the attack.  Benefit: This prevents discovery during the grooming process.
  
• A public expression of fealty (FB, Twitter..) provides them with instant acceptance by the "lord"  Benefit: this provides them spiritual protection for the attack and maximizes the publicity for ISIS
  
• A Jihadi, or their local network, shouldn't ask for permission, planning, or support.  They should act on their own.  The attack itself is a demonstration of loyalty.  Benefit: this reduces chances of discovery and maximizes the innovative potential of the global network.

The more I think about it, fealty is an extremely useful way of harnessing and directing the power of an open source insurgency (aka, herding cats).

Online Fealty

The ISIS Caliphate is using online fealty as a way to recruit jihadis around the world.   It's a powerful recasting of an ancient concept that goes well beyond modern expressions of loyalty.
The way ISIS has constructed its brand of online fealty makes it globally scalable.  The  only barriers to entry are:  conduct an attack and publicly pledge fealty.  The most common platforms for a public pledge?  Social media, 911, etc.
For example, when Omar Mateen pledged fealty to ISIS during his deadly attack, it provided him with the following:

• It instantly gave him permission to conduct an attack in the name of ISIS.
• It instantly accepted him into the ranks of ISIS as a proven holy warrior.
• It cleansed his previous sins (particularly his conflict over his sexual orientation).

This recasting of fealty is interesting within the context of open source insurgency because it might provide ISIS with a way to construct a globally scalable, segmented network of terror.
That's a very new innovation.  

Monday Music "Shriner's convention" by Ray Stevens

I am still groggy, I am changing my sleep schedule back to nights, but then I will be going to days, then possible back to nights then back to days.....or something like that.    After the shooting in Orlando, I have been watching friends go after friends on what they believe is the cause of the shooting.  I believe that it is radical islam or is islam always radical?   Confusing stuff, I am watching my facebook feed blow up with people talking past each other and nobody listening.   This shows how divided we are as a nation, and I believe that this will bet worse this summer.  It is promising to be another hot one and I have a gut feeling that this will happen again.  
      I will roll out a humorous song, I have used Ray Stevens before with Mississippi squirrel revival and the streak.  He writes serious songs and also funny ones.  

    
"Shriners Convention" is a country-and-western novelty song written, composed, and performed by Ray Stevens. It is based on Stevens' experiences at an Atlanta hotel where an actual Shriners convention was being held.

It is reported that some real-life Shriners groups are not fond of this song, as it appears to portray Shriners in a poor light. However, many other Shriners have taken the song as a harmless piece of humor, and have even welcomed Stevens's participation in fundraising activities, as Stevens's fame attracts attendees to charity events. It has been suggested that Stevens's presence indicates that Shriners have a sense of humor about themselves, making the group seem more accessible.

    
The backdrop of the song is the "43rd Annual Convention of the Grand Mystic Royal Order of the Nobles of the Ali Baba Temple of the Shrine."
The main humor of the song involves a one-sided dialogue, via hotel phone, between two members of the Hahira, Georgia, delegation: leader "Illustrious Potentate" (Bubba), and member "Noble Lumpkin" (Coy), who has gone rogue. Stevens voices Bubba, while Coy's voice is unheard, his comments made known only by Bubba's reactions to them. The basic format of these cutaways is similar to those of Shelley Berman and Bob Newhart.
Each verse of the song describes a different aspect of the convention: the parade, the convention banquet, and a ritualistic "secret meeting" (which is implied to be a poker tournament). With each verse, Bubba becomes increasingly upset with Coy's sophomoric actions during the convention. Despite the fact that the Shriners are supposed to be, as Bubba puts it, "pillars of the community," Coy has managed to pull off such hijinks as getting his Harley-Davidson motorcycle into his hotel room and on the high diving board of the hotel swimming pool, hanging out in the pool at 3 a.m. with the cocktail lounge waitresses, and—despite being purportedly married to a "Charlene," who apparently did not accompany Coy to the convention—having one of his girlfriends streaking through their banquet yelling out the "secret code," wearing nothing but Coy's fez. (Coy tried to deny this, only to have Bubba remind him that he was the only member whose fez had "a propeller on top.")
Eventually, after repeated attempts to warn Coy about his behavior, Bubba expels Coy from the delegation. Coy simply revs up his Harley and disconnects the call, after mentioning that he might join the Hells Angels instead.

A video for "Shriners Convention" appears in Stevens's direct-to-video film, Get Serious! The song also ties into the film's plot, wherein a genuine Illustrious Potentate and country sheriff named Bubba, along with his deputy Coy (who in truth somewhat enjoys being mistaken for the Coy of the song) and certain family members and friends, believe that Stevens is deliberately misrepresenting them in his songs. (All of this alludes to another Stevens song, "Dudley Do-Right of the Highway Patrol.")

    I also am adding another one called "Its me again Margaret",  I can't find any info on the sing but it is a humorous listen to and I actually found a video on the same song.   

Just got back...and lines from a good movie

I just got back and man I am tired...

kinda like Mel Brooks and Venice.....

   Here is one of my favorite lines from the movie though....

"Here me O Israel, I have these..15...*Crash* 10 commandments for all to hear and obey....."

Monday Music "Living on a Prayer" by Bon Jovi

We are on a family vacation in what I call the "Armpit of the North", kinda like "Alabama is the armpit of the South" kinda thing.  I don't know, I like both states, although I would move to Alabama, I would not move to New Jersey, something about the draconian gun laws and what seems to be the endemic corruption in the state, everything cost much more here than back home.
   The weather was bad yesterday, I will enclose a few pics.

      This was the beach Yesterday, Rain was threatening so we packed it up and headed to the house.  We changed clothes and went looking for dinner and the rain hit, we were swimming down the road trying to find a restaurant.  We found one, it was a pizza place and the pizza up here in Jersey are different than the pizza back home.

Well today was a better day by far than yesterday, the sun came out and ht was a nice day at the beach.
     I decided to roll with Bon Jovi since we are in their area so to speak, the Jersey shore, home of the Kardashians(ewww) Bon Jovi and the Boss, Bruce Springstein. 

   
"Livin' on a Prayer" is Bon Jovi's second chart-topping single from their 12× platinum Slippery When Wet album. Written by Jon Bon Jovi, Richie Sambora, and Desmond Child, the single, released in late 1986, was well received at both rock and pop radio and its music video was given heavy rotation at MTV, giving the band their first No. 1 on the Billboard Mainstream Rock chart and their second consecutive No. 1 Billboard Hot 100 hit.
The song has become the band's signature song, topping fan-voted lists and re-charting around the world decades after its release. The original 45-RPM single release sold 800,000 copies in the United States, and in 2013 was certified Triple Platinum for over 3 million digital downloads.

 Jon Bon Jovi did not like the original recording of this song, which can be found as a hidden track on 100,000,000 Bon Jovi Fans Can't Be Wrong. Richie Sambora, however, convinced him the song was good, and they reworked it with a new bass line, different drum fills and the use of a talk box to include it on their upcoming album Slippery When Wet. The song spent two weeks at number one on the Mainstream Rock Tracks, from January 31 - February 14, 1987, and four weeks at number one on the Billboard Hot 100, from February 14 – March 14. It also hit number four on the UK singles chart.
The album version of the song, timed around 4:10, fades out at the end. However, the music video game Guitar Hero World Tour features the song's original studio ending, where the band revisit the intro riff and end with a talk box solo; this version ends at 4:53. The original ending is also playable on similar video game Rock Band 2, though edited in this case (thereby eliminating the talk box solo at the end). The version included on the 2005 DualDisc edition of Slippery When Wet has an extended version of the original ending, with a different talk box solo playing over the riff (possibly taken from an outtake of the song); this version, which fades out at the end like the standard version of the song, ends at 5:06.
After the September 11, 2001 attacks – in which New Jersey was the second-hardest hit state after New York, suffering hundreds of casualties among both WTC workers and first responders – the band performed an acoustic version of this song for The Concert for New York City. Bon Jovi performed a similar version as part of the special America: A Tribute to Heroes.

"Livin' on a Prayer" is Bon Jovi's second chart-topping single from their 12× platinum Slippery When Wet album. Written by Jon Bon Jovi, Richie Sambora, and Desmond Child, the single, released in late 1986, was well received at both rock and pop radio and its music video was given heavy rotation at MTV, giving the band their first No. 1 on the Billboard Mainstream Rock chart and their second consecutive No. 1 Billboard Hot 100 hit.
The song has become the band's signature song, topping fan-voted lists and re-charting around the world decades after its release. The original 45-RPM single release sold 800,000 copies in the United States, and in 2013 was certified Triple Platinum for over 3 million digital downloads.

The video for the song features shots of the band rehearsing, then playing in front of a crowd. The first half of the video, featuring the rehearsal footage, is in black and white, and the second half of the video, performing to the arena audience, is in color.
In the beginning of the video, Jon Bon Jovi has a harness attached, and later in the music video he soars over the crowd via overhead wires.
The music video was recorded on September 17, 1986 at the Grand Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles, California and was directed by Wayne Isham. Clips of the video are also used in the Muppet Babies episode "Scooter By Any Other Name" during the song "Look At Me Now".

    

Political musings....

The elections are ramping up, the primaries are all but done, on the GOP side, the Donald got the delegates. Team Donk are still feuding, the anointed one by the DNC is having to fight for her scepter from the old socialist from Vermont..

    I will vote for Trump in the General election, Voting for Hillary the Butcher of Bengazi, the 6 million dollars that *vanished*, the many "donations" to the Clinton foundations..

 

Much has been said for the Clinton's propensity of "Pay to Play" politics...

Here are a quick list of her domestic donors, 

And to show that she is an equal opportunity hustler, foreign governments had to "contribute" to the foundation....

  Her and Bills hustling started in Arkansas when he was governor, Bills and Hillary's  name has been brought up with Tyson Chicken, the biggest employer in the state.  And she has branched out since then from travelgate, Vince Foster, the 900 FBI files, the Rose Law firm billing records and many other assorted events that a sycophant press covers up for her..

  I remember when the Clintons left the white house, they pillaged it like the Visigoths went through Rome, Hillary and Bill had to return over $300,000 worth of items.  They would tell everyone that they are poor, but they bought a 1.2 million dollar house in NY to prepare Hillary for the senate seat she was handed when the senior senator from NY retired and she was groomed for that seat.  The DNC made sure that nobody ran against her on the democratic primary.  

On a different note, Bernie is making Hillary work for it.  His fans are rabid, they have heckled Hillary at campaign stops and also they would stir up trouble with the GOP candidate.   There has been a lot of assaults on Trump supporters by illegals, and paid activist and the democratic mayors of those cities are blaming Trump.  Explain that again...?

 

  This reminds me of another time on History....

 When people are soo afraid of an opposing point of view that they would resort to street tactics to scare off or attack Americans that hold an opposing point of view...what does that say for our society.   We are in deep trouble, I have a gut feeling that this summer will burn and people will get killed at these rallies.  I have noticed that Bernie and Hillary rallies are not hassled, but the Donalds rallies are...?  All these people are doing is solidifying support Trump.  When I see protestors burning American flags, waving Mexican flags and attacking Americans, it makes my blood boil, where are the cops to arrest these people....What will happen when they corner some old man and his wife and start getting physical like they have been doing and the old guy pulls out s pistol and fearing for his lifer shoots several of these people.  What would the narrative be then?    

And we had a shooter over at UCLA, the initial reports were "white shooter", and the media rejoiced...finally something that fits the narrative.....but wait.....the information of the shooter came out and wait for it.....

Yep, the guy that was the shooter was a raghead, goathumper, religion of peace, a follower of Islam.   Here is his profile.....before and after after the mainstream media edited it to try to fit the narrative.

and the after.....

he wasn't a "bitter Clinger" as they earnestly hoped....and they wonder why people don't believe them anymore.   Credibility is important....and the mainstream media lost it a long time ago.

    And finally people have lost their mind about the Gorilla that got shot in Cincinnati,   This is a sad state of affairs and shows the problem of our country, Many of the leftist are mad because they shot a gorilla, it didn't matter that a human child was in danger.  What does it mean when a society values a gorilla's life over a human baby? To a leftist, they view humans as a virus

     They would be happy if all humans were eradicated and "Gaia" can be in peace and harmony.
   What does it say when we have a large segment of the population that hates itself, they hate being human and they hate Western civilization.   What does that say for us?  There is something like 3000 babies aborted everyday and nobody cares...but let a zoo animal get shot and the outrage is long and hard and loud.   What does this say for our value system.  No wonder the islamist and others view us with contempt .