Where Dumb Donald Has Driven Us / The U.S.

For optimal effect, prior to playing back the clip, above, read the set up, below…

From 1973 – 82, long before the Real Donald became a (four-letter) household word, we found the clever (clairvoyant?) Match Game writers submitting Dumb Donald scenarios for emcee Gene Rayburn to recite to the panelists, contestants and all who were playing along in the home and studio audiences… situations such as…

“Dumb Donald is so dumb, he tried to
wash his car by driving it into a _____.”

So, in this instance, just how do the two Donalds’ worlds meet?

Well, as is oft true in soothsayer circles, divining all that’s actually being observed in the crystal ball, at best, at first, can appear a bit hazy… mysterious… unearthly… otherworldly… will-o’-the-wisp.

But not to worry… it’d appear that the enshrouding mist is… slowly but surely… starting to dissipate. YES! Two… count ‘em… TWO images have started revealing themselves… with crystal clarity! We now see the way the world is supposed to be and… alas… the way that it really is…

At first, we discover the Real Donald hard at work… securely seated behind the wheel… feeling right “at home” in the driver’s seat. He’s steadfastly providing the oomph… the driving force… the forward momentum to resolutely guide our nation / world onto the high road… the higher astral plane of limitless progress. It’s a truly magical land, where our righteous wishing is all it takes to make it so. And those wishes-come-true are awesome! We see each and every soul attaining everlasting physical and spiritual well-being, blissful contentment and prosperity! OMG, our spotless windshield is now showcasing our spectacular destination: The Land of Milk and Honey.

Oh NO… say it isn’t so! Everything is starting to fade… crossfade into the inky darkness of an endless night. The drone of the gas guzzler’s engine… the dual tailpipes belching out sickly, acrid, nose-hair curling, billowing clouds of incompletely combusted petrol. The savage, pitiless tempest rages on and on. We’re traveling a rain slickened, crumbling, pothole cratered, winding, mile-high mountain road where… where… OH NO!  Off to the right, there’s the in-disrepair guardrail with countless sections missing! We’re just one errant steering wheel tug away from a plunge into the bottomless pit of misery! OH NO! There’s that ne’er-do-well… the Real Donald… who’s nodding off behind the wheel… CORRECTION… he’s so drunk on power that he’s passed out. OH NO! We’re all gonna die! We’re all careening, wildly out of control and heading for… heading for… heading for…

So sorry… everything is now breaking up. Hmm, we must’ve entered a tunnel where our crystal ball’s signal strength indicator… not unlike a cell phone’s… is showing “NO BARS”!

But not to worry… not to worry… if we scroll back up to our clip, I do believe our in deep thought, clairvoyant Match Game contestant will be able to correctly divine where motorist Dumb Donald has driven his car… and also… precisely where the Real Donald has driven the Real America…

And after Match Game has “signed off”, scroll back down to this bonus clip to really watch Real Donald in action / inaction…

 

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He Has Worn Out America’s Welcome Mat

 

Today we’ve learned that Dictator Donny wants to dodge / defy the U.S. Constitution to delay / dick up America’s free, presidential elections. Seeing how he spits contempt at every grand idea our Founding Fathers had envisioned for themselves… for posterity… we must conclude that the fake prez just can’t cut it as an American. One would think that, by now, he’d have thumbed his nose, whipped his finger, waved his final good-bye and cut and run.

Let’s face it. He’s the White House guest who has worn out America’s welcome mat.

While we should never get in the habit of booting Americans out of America, since he doesn’t want to be an American, anyway, in his case, we can make one exception… can we not? You know… just to indulge him?

It’s high time that the fake prez packs his bags and gets the hell out! Let him emigrate to Russia, where it’s a certainty that puppeteer Putin will welcome his puppet with open arms.

In the worst possible way, they are, indeed, kindred spirits. After all they both feel intense, perverse rapture for autocracies where the typical, scum of the earth despot stays in power till he drops dead.

The only unanswered question…

Would Big Bad Vlad install his protégé, Donny, as his heir apparent or court jester?

 

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Fortune Cookie Blog (ISO Open Minds)

 

Intolerance of intolerance is Vital to Securing
a Flourishing, Free to Breathe Global Society!

 

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Would he be open to Kiana Ledé’s open letter?

Ms. Kiana Ledé sets up her music video…

“Through all the crying and pleading, all the protesting and donating, I wanted to do something that always makes me feel lighter — singing. I came across the song “Dear Mr. President” by P!nk and realized so many of the lyrics are STILL relevant today. This song was originally released 14 years ago. I hope this song drives people to VOTE because Trump is a symbol of racism and we are facing the impending doom of his re-election. In order for us to follow through, he needs to be replaced. All of mine and Republic Records’ proceeds from the song are being donated to the NAACP Empowerment Programs which fight against issues like police brutality, wrongful imprisonment, voter suppression, racial biased education and much more.”

She also encourages donations to Black Lives Matter and National Bailout
& urges Americans (18+) to register / check their voter registration status

 

 

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Absolute Power Corrupts Absolutely

True Americans, read it and weep.

Revolting Donald J. Trump’s overthrow of America is nearly complete.

Whatever Donny wants, Donny gets!

NO QUESTIONS ASKED / ALLOWED!

The U.S. Constitution warns he’s not permitted to delay the Elections.

But the butthead doth wipe his fat Fascist fanny with it.

Who’d even want to touch the Trump soiled / despoiled charter, let alone read it?

Witness the johnny-on-the-spot FOX affiliate so matter-of-factly and promptly phoning it in!

THE WORST OF TIMES… film at Eleven!

Dear freedom loving nations of our world,

Perhaps it’s too much to expect of you,

But PLEASE oh PLEASE come to our rescue!

PLEASE do whatever it takes to resurrect the late, once great, United States!

In the event you can’t / won’t…

My American Compatriots…

It was fun while it lasted.

God help us all!

THE WORST OF TIMES… NO film at Eleven!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fortune Cookie Blog (MaskWearing 101)

 

The rationale for grousing about pandemic masks runs the
full gamut and can speak volumes re a person’s character.
The selfish vent discontent by flat-out refusing to wear‘em.
The selfless comply, yet, express exasperation, seeing how
the non-compliant prolong Sickness, Suffering and Death.

 

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Then Profanity It Shall Be

 

For the first four years of blogging here, @WordPress, I’ve managed to pretty much steer clear of profane language or, at the very least, to sub in clever, reasonable facsimiles thereof… e.g. asshat / a-hole… WTF / effing / F’d up / mucked up… $#!+ / give a $#!+…. and spoonerisms such as “shive a git” and “fit hits the shan”, etc.

Keeping it reasonably clean has been more about maintaining a family friendly site than a reflection of who I really am. In other words, when sufficiently outraged, my offline barrage of choice words (both uttered and written) has been known to rival, if not exceed, the salty language unleashed by the proverbial sailor/salt and truck driver.

The rationale for my long overdue revision of my self-imposed, no profanity policy, is inexorably linked to humankind’s exponentially worsening (by the hour and minute), multiple societal crises. And sans any doubt, our downfall is deeply rooted in rotten Donald J. Trump’s rise to power. Worse yet, we oft witness other leaders of his ilk, worldwide, plagiarizing his wretched words and aping his deplorable deeds whenever, they too, devolve before our very eyes and ears.

Fleshing that out, our society is currently being plagued by a trifecta of catastrophes… namely… [1] the spread of COVID-19, [2] the eons old, cancerous growth of systemic racism and [3] metastasizing Fascism.

And now that these reprehensible leaders have gleefully (sadistically?) sent our human family careening / fast tracking towards endangered species territory, if not extinction, I ask…

What the fuck is so family friendly about any of that evil shit, huh? Is that not the far worse obscenity?

It goes without saying that swearing does lose much of its impact when used excessively / gratuitously. And while ugly times and vulgar leaders do warrant foul language, my use of profanity will be sparing. In other words, IF the topic is profanity appropriate, THEN profanity it shall be.

 

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Chain Yanking While Social Isolating Can Be Fun

Don’t read the post, below / view the clip, above, if you click by at a time of mourning or other heartache.

I just had the distinct pleasure of shutting down a telemarketer (and likely scammer). Right from the get-go, I cut thru his paint-by-the-numbers pleasantries to ask, “What’s this call all about?” He replied (words to the effect) that he’d be helping me plan my own funeral. How nice…

While there’s nothing intrinsically wrong with pre-planning for life’s end game inevitability, when juxtaposed against the backdrop of the COVID-19 pandemic (which has already got many of us obsessing over death), this was just too damned ghoulish and in bad taste… especially since the “funeral director” was delivering his spiel while his headset was picking up all of that background, boiler room chatter.

Hmm… one would expect some canned, low decibel, somber organ playing or strumming of harps. But hey, if they can’t dig the importance of ambience, it’s their funeral… right?

Anyway, this all left me with the impression that, were I to buy into his scam, my body would eventually wind up on an assembly line conveyor belt, leading to a bubbling cauldron where my mortal remains would be cooked up into a concoction (confection?) known as Soylent Green.

Soylent what? You ask? Short answer: crunchy human granola bars. Somewhat longer rundown…

Soylent Green is the title to the 1973, dystopian, Sci-Fi flick, set in (then futuristic) 2022 NYC, where the main protagonist, Thorn, resides amongst the multiple millions of struggling, starving, homicidal maniacs who battle each other, daily, to score that generic, protein rich foodstuff (and unnaturally… in the process… unwittingly becoming cannibals).

Which brings us back to that crass telemarketer and what went down in the end…

I cut Mr. Reaper off mid-sentence to deadpan, “Uh, I’m donating my body to science.”

CLICK! (his phone, not mine)

I burst into laughter.

Which proves that chain yanking while social isolating can be fun.

 

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Fortune Cookie Blog (Combat Boots)

 

Why do journalists, who obsess over objectivity issues, tiptoe
around Fascist régimes, as if they’re treading a tortuous path,
loaded with mountains of Fido’s feces? Since it’d be far easier
to snag some new combat boots than kneel before a dictator,
stand your ground, grow a set and kick ALL of that shit aside!

 

 

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The Prez Sez “Nobody likes me” (Vid of the Day)

Chris Cuomo’s tough love lecture / fatherly chat will likely go in one ear and out the other of “the son”… a.k.a. the un-schoolable, problem child / man-child… a.k.a. the empty suit, empty-headed head of state, who’s holed up in the Oval Office.

Nonetheless, it is both reassuring and refreshing for us to know that there are still learned journalists / professor-types, who will try to get through to the truculent, truant Trump.

 

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