The Best Little WhoreHouse In Texas Last Picture Show Part 3

The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas

What do you do when your whiny son gets cleaned out by a domineering ex-wife, loses his ass, hat, and all his cattle, ends up sitting around crying all the time? Well, my mother got me a job in a whorehouse. My first wife, Charsha was half Navaho, half bitch, and I was one hundred percent stupid. Uh, she was also my first, if you know what I mean.

I'd been injured in a car wreck, and a settlement was looming on the horizon so she fell in love, well for two years at least, then cleaned me out, took my settlement, and ran off with her sister’s husband. Ever see a set of Legos fall apart? Well, that was me.

I went to work in a pool hall. Hey, it's Texas, ok. What did you expect, a nuclear plant? By and by mom got me a job working for Finis Patrick Anderson. Now Pat wasn't, like, Mafia, or anything like that, but he had his ways, ok? He made me the door man in a dance club. It was called the My O My Club, derived from Memorial Yoke of Military Youth. Young soldiers, Vietnam, naked women and beer, yeah, you get used to it. The women were real, but the beer wasn't. Killeen didn't allow bars back then so the GIs were served a beer called Metbrew, which was near beer. The girls would chide the kids into buying them “cocktails” which were five dollars a pop, and were a lot of Seven Up with a shot of Coke, giving the illusion of champagne. These bitches would gulp down the fake cocktails until they peed their pants, or the soldier ran out of money, and then they'd move to the next table. For the uninformed this was a rip off.

And there were dancers. Now they couldn't go totally nude, but topless was cool. Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, YEAH. Dollars in the G String, the whole nine yards. Mom figured this would sober me up but wanna know how stupid I was? Never got laid! I was a good employee. I worked the door for about six months and ended up being a bag man.

There was a division manager who came up from Austin to make deposits at about three in he morning, and my job was to carry a shotgun under a long coat and shoot anyone who approached him.  I crappeth Thee NOT! Never got to shoot anybody, but it was nice to think I could. From there Pat moved me over to his “Head Shop” which sold all paraphernalia required to service the expanding mind. I ran a cash register and carried a Colt Peacemaker under my sport coat, which was my real job. In addition to that I was a driver bringing booze up from Burnet into Killeen for the  City Council to enjoy and that got us a free pass for the completely obvious speak easy adjacent to the head shop that Pat provided for the well heeled of Killeen society. Long about then I couldn't remember my ex’s friggin’ NAME!

Long about this time I fell in love with a sixteen year old girl, ran off to Mexico, married her and it took Pat to save me from hanging. My son, Wilbur came along a year after that, and one of my bonuses was cases of baby formula so you can say that Master Chief Wilbur Witt began life on payoff from the mob.
Now, just because I was moved to a new job didn't mean I could neglect my previous ones. On a typical day I'd count opening cash at the My O My, open the bar, run to Burnet, come back with a load, work the store, and end up dropping the combined deposits at night. The up side was I worked for Pat and if I walked into the Blue Bonnet Café and there was no seating someone decided they were done, pay their check and leave. You know, thinking back, I had a good life. Sometime after this I decided to go to school. I must have been out of my mind.

Killeen was a Wild West Show in the seventies. There was a shooting gallery in the space between two buildings where there were .22 rifles using “shorts” for target shooting, and naturally the soldiers would line up to demonstrate their skill only to be out done by a pimp using a personal .25 automatic. I considered automatics to be for queers so my peacemaker was a single action .357 magnum, and brothers and sisters, I could use it! My stripes never really changed.  After owning several autos from cheap 9’s to Smith and Wesson 40’s, I settled back on the same old 1880’s revolver I carried in 1974. I've heard all the “firepower” arguments, and seen cops shoot some guy five hundred and seventy times for having an expired driver license, and my advice is learn to shoot, bitch!

I learned from the best, pimps, bagmen, contractors, whores and an occasional cop who knew what he was doing. The cops knew we were all packing, but there were very few shootouts. An armed society is a polite society.

Got arrested one time for running the speak easy. The cops had to bust our balls every now and then to please the electorate, and convince everyone that the police chief was honest, which he wasn't, he was gay and Pat owned him, but I got busted. Ended up in a holding tank, and the company lawyer, the right honorable Joe Barron showed up drunk in his Dingo boots and got out in the cell with me. His partner had to spring us both. Eventually he whole thing was dropped for lack of evidence. Joe represented me in my divorce and showed up in a pair of Bahama Shorts and a straw hat and Judge Black made him stand in the corner for ten minutes for contempt of court. You can't make this stuff up, folks.

The Last Picture Show

The Last Picture Show

There was a movie back in the seventies, I think, The Last Picture Show. It was in black and white. A lot of people thought that was for effect, but the truth of the matter is that format exemplified the Texas that I grew up in. Our lives were black and white, both politically and physically. Color movies were rare, and rainbow life was even harder to find. 

We had the old pickups, piss warm beer, skinny, smelly girls, and, of course there was one hottie. Ours was Sharon. Sharon even looked like the blonde in the movie, and she had breasts, a bonus for white chicks because uually only Mexican girls had a set of those. She even ended up on the cover of Playboy years later as part of a spread called, “The Girls of Texas.” I never did get to first base with her because I was scared of girls, but she had a horse! I'm not kidding. Right there in the middle of town in her back yard. 

Anyway, I digress. I wasn't born in Texas, but I got there as quick as I could which was the morning I woke up, at ten years old, in Texas, and the first thing I noticed was that it was flat. I was in central Texas. This place is like five states, and about the only thing they all agree on is they don't like Yankees i.e. anyone outside of Texas! You can be a wetback and you'll fare better than a New Yorker down here. It's a little better now with the interstate and all, but there's still some lingering resentment to people who talk too fast and and wear sneakers. All but Austin, they wear sneakers there but we have to accept that because we can't move the capitol. 

So here I was, in September, looking out of a motel window at hotter than hell Texas!  Texas is hotter than chicken grease. Now, bear in mind that most of the population had to go to a movie to sit in air conditioning. Water coolers were the norm. Your state of the art water cooler had a hose keeping the pan filled, with this toilette bobber turning it on and off, and this little pump thingy pushing the water up, sprinkling the hay filters on the four sides, yeah, you heard me right, hay, and at least in theory that would cool a house. Well, that was a crock of shit, and it smelled like shit. Horse shit! Well, nobody had one of those! What they had was no hose, no pump, second hand, rusting gadget with several tow-headed kids running out with a pan pouring water over moldy hay when granny started wheezing. 

It would cool you if you sat right in front of it. Consequently everyone drank beer. Dad drank beer, Mom drank beer, the kids snuck beer, the dog drank beer, EVERYONE drank beer. You could drink beer all day, with sweet tea, tons of water, and never piss. I missed Shreveport. 

I had to get into school. Killeen had so few schools we went a half a day. It was totally integrated because there were no schools so I saw my first black kid in school. Didn't affect me. No, I mean it. Made me no difference at all. It was so damn hot nobody cared. We were all just trying to live. There was another tribe there, too. Mexicans. There were aspects to that phenomenon I appreciated. 

Back in Louisiana the physical education was recess, maybe a little baseball IF you were up to it, and it wasn't very challenging because we were all white. But TEXAS! You ran until you puked, played baseball with Willie Mays third cousin and then took a shower with some kid named Santos, who SHAVED! By the way, this was the same Santos who slept with your wife years later when you were in the county jail. You'd be in there, and some guy would say, “Hey man! Santos is crawling up on your wife right now!” Well! I went to school with Santos. 

In short order I was in Junior High. I was dumber than a box of rocks. I was eating a little better than back in the states , but the heat cancelled that out. Had to walk to school. There were guidelines. If you, say, lived in the next county you'd get a bus, any closer than that, and you were on your own. 

In Shreveport if you misbehaved you'd get a stern talking to with a note home. Of course, I was always stupid enough to take the note to my mom, and she'd chew on me, quoting the note, emphasizing the wording as she went, but TEXAS! They got around all that crap, just dragged you out in the hall and beat your ass. Every morning sounded like rifle shots from a firing squad. I must admit it was entertaining when you got a “crier,” and if you got a begger, oh my GOD! We'd hang out the door to see that, and if it was Santos, well, my heart would actually skip a beat.

Now, education. Let me gauge the quality. I didn't learn a God Damn thing in all my years of Texas public schooling except typing, lunch, and how to avoid getting my ass beat. They were actually stupid enough to put a clock in every room so we all learned “clock” real good! Long about the ninth grade I discovered girls. Oh, they were always there it's just that they all had to wear dresses below their knees and looked like Olive Oyle. I fell in love with a girl named Grace Barnes. She looked like Olive Oyle, too, but she had a cute face. It wasn't a torrid romance. She gave me her cake at lunch once, but then I came upon these new creatures we didn't have in Louisiana. MEXICAN GIRLS! When you consider the separation of the races in Louisiana you must understand that Hispanics were not the issue. Everything was black and white. That, and I never saw a Mexican before I came to Texas, except on the John Wayne version of the “Alamo.” But, Texas was completely different. And Mexican GIRLS? Viva Zapata!

For the record, Mexican girls are born fully grown. Just thought you needed to know that. They had to wear the same dresses as the other girls but I'd trade one Mexican calf, even half a calf, for a butt naked Anglo girl any day, all except Sharon, of course, but they all have a brother named Santos.

I didn't excel  in high school except one time. We had this fountain in the commons. Kids threw coins in it. Ok, do the math; fountain full of change, poor white trash, yeah, you get the drift. Anyway, me, Joe Leeth and some other numbnut came up with a plan. I mean there was a lot of money in there, just sitting. So, Joe was gonna hold my belt and I'd brace my feet against the edge of the fountain. The plan was to ease me down and once I was close enough I'd just reach in and scoop up the loot. 

We should have paid more attention in physics class and we would've understood the laws of Leverage better. At about forty five degrees my weight increased exponentially, combined with the chickenshit that was holding my belt, and in I went. 

I made a perfect human shape in the green slime on the bottom of the fountain. Didn't get a dime.  Came up, and as the water drained out of my ears the laughter rolled in. Well, we all got taken to the office. Of course you know they had to beat all our asses, my wet ass being first. Then they marched us out to the football locker room, because that's where the clothes dryer was, and they beat our asses, then back to class. Life was so much simpler back then. I'm just glad I didn't have hemorrhoids. 

I began writing in high school. Don't know what drove me to it, I hated school, and everything that had anything to do with it, but for some reason I could string a story. Beginning in the tenth grade I'd buy a two hundred page spiral notebook and jump right in. When the notebook was full, the book was finished. The first was a collection of short stories. I got my ideas from dreams. Now in old time Texas you dreamed a lot because we had those old timey gas space heaters. They were free standing with no outlet to the outside, just this hot box at the center of the main room. I guess that constituted central heat. Anyway it beat freezing, however, it did put out a fair amount of carbon monoxide, but them old timers weren't worried about that shit. You got thirteen kids what's one, more or less. So, during the school year in your sleep, hovering between heaven and hell, you'd dream, and I wrote it all down. 

My first book was a hit. Now this was the sixties and my stories were right up there with the Beatles. Next year I wrote a gangster story, but my best seller was in my senior year. I came up with a plot about this pissed off little nerd (it was autobiographical) who planned to bomb the school cafeteria. God, it was good. It went hour by hour as the bomb ticked away, kids milling around, teachers watching, then BOOM! First responders, last kisses, and lots of drama. 

I passed it to my school mates, and all went well until someone gave it to Miss Hornbuckle, who never had a date in her fifty-six years, and she gave it to the principle, Mr. Patterson! From there I went to the office. Patterson had read it, and, of course, first things first, he beat my ass, but then he called the cops. There was an issue with my book. Uh, the bomb was functional. You see, I'd spent the first ten years of my life in Shreveport, Louisiana, with oil drills, dynamite, blasting caps, stuff like that, and it wasn't very hard to run two wires from the bell and striker of an old alarm clock, throw in a lantern battery, run the two wires down to a blasting cap that was tucked inside six sticks of dynamite, alarm goes off, striker hits the bell, sends sparks to the blasting cap, lunch is over. It was a good bomb, too. Blew my ass up!

Well, there I was rubbing my ass in Mr. Patterson’s office when the cars rolled up, the boys got out, and the room filled up with laws. Now, to be a cop in 1960s Texas you had to own a gun, and and your training was not pull it on folks like Bonnie and Clyde. But, a kid with a Big Chief notebook and a bruised butt? Shut the front door. You gotta remember, Killeen was a boring town. In the sixties we couldn't even muster a race riot. I must admit that Mr. Patterson was a tad bit smarter than the  cops. They didn't have a clue so he clued them in. Old bastard! Well, to make a long story short, got my ass busted, missed lunch, and they kept my book as “evidence.” Oh, and Miss Hornbuckle told me I'd never be able to communicate in the English language. What did she know about English? She taught school in Texas!

Somebody Ought To Shoot That Nigger!

Somebody ought to shoot that nigger! That's offensive, isn't it, especially if it were said before January 20, 2017 because you'd know exactly who I'm talking about? So how is it that there can be a play portraying a Trump look alike being killed like Caesar, killers shooting congressmen on a baseball field, and singing stars saying they want to blow up the White House?

Even our legally elected President’s drop dead beautiful daughter isn't beyond attack, or his eleven year old son, or even his wife. Does he have a dog. I doubt it. If he does he keeps it in a dog house. They'd be trying to give it anti-freeze. These are the people who have been running the show. These are the people who have been butchering the unborn and selling their body parts. These are the people who've been pimping off twelve year old girls on Ecstasy Island.  THESE are the people who want to make Bruce Gender woman of the year!

That political pendulum I told you about two years ago has now swung all the way to the right, and stuck to the wall. America is fed up. The judgement of a righteous God is upon the faithful followers of The View, and if we don't accept it we will have the same “view” of hell they're about to have, and rightfully so. God has put the sword of vengeance in our hands, and it's high time we use it! The people that put Donald Trump in office have had their noses to the grindstone feeding these degenerates long enough, and that great cash register in the sky is about to total up the bill. The baby boomers have taken it on the chin all their lives as they fought wars, paid taxes, passed civil rights acts and apologized for every slave ever sold every minute of every hour of every day of every year and enough is enough. We stood by while statues commemorating our two hundred plus dead in the Civil War, who died for THEIR country were pulled down, and thrown into the scrap heap, that is until the AntiChrists came to Texas!

Verily verily I say unto you there will be wailing and  gnashing of teeth as God fearing Americans rise up from Synagogues to the Mormon Temple in Salt Lake to sacrifice these infidels on the altar of an angry God so that our daughters can walk to the mall in their jeans without being raped by religious nuts from some sand pit who can't even read the book they so fanatically revere.

The Trump train is just getting started! It pulled out of the station when Mr. Trump declared his candidacy. It continues to roll across America, picking up more and more people from Bangor, Maine to Seattle. It is picking up steam as it travels down the line. In front of it there’s a cow catcher that knocks all “cows” off the tracks that get in the way.

The President’s popularity continues to rise as he puts Europe, the Middle East, Cuba, and, oh yes, the Russians in their place. The third world is what they are now and what they have always been. As he takes money robbed from investors, returns it, jobs will be created, and after Obamadidn’tcare is erased from history the people with jobs will again be on a group plan and health care will be back! Tell you what! Defund Planned Parenthood and put THAT money into health care for children. To begin with there'll be millions of babies who will need it because they'll be BORN! There was another baby boom, but you'll never see them. They'll never go to college, become doctors, lawyers, mothers, congressmen or women because they are all dead! The result of a genocide waged against black babies by the most vile scheme ever perpetuated by any nation. A revised Parenting Plan. A “final solution” for children of poverty, referred to as weeds, deemed unworthy of a shot. A “solution” that makes Hitler look like the Pope! Think I'm wrong, Google it!

So, I would never raise a hand against any president, but if my opening line offended you let me just remind you that somebody DID kill all them babies, and DID sell their hides just like buffalo hides in that wild, wild west the anti-gun people always try to shove up my ass. Pull YOUR heads out of Mr. Ass, and smell the coffee. Better yet, have a cup, and wake the hell up! We don't have to shoot anyone we already did on November the 8th! Don't waste this bullet, it was your last one!

Never Date A Colored Girl

"Never date a colored girl. They's all got the clap. They get it from they mamas." My grandmother's sage advice to me when I was five years old.

In spite of all the glamour shots of Spanish moss, and cypress trees, Louisiana is about as shit out of luck as one can get when it comes to being from somewhere. It's hot, muggy, racist, and nobody's family tree has a fork in it. Mine was no exception. My grandparents were first cousins, and I guess that's why we all look alike, have every health condition known to America and some third world countries, Louisiana being among that group in spite of it being positioned at the asshole of the Mississippi River.

Long about the time I was three years old God decided it was time to kill me so I contradicted polio and something called the “sleeping sickness.”   I lived, no thanks to the medical care of the day, and the following year they gave me a polio vaccination. You can't make this stuff up folks. So at five I was deaf in one ear, which still rings till this day,  blind in one eye and walking like a duck, but by golly I was white and that counted for something I guess.

Being white in a Klan based state had its perks, the main one being there was a whole race somewhere just a below white trash, which is what I was. What that amounted to was we could vote without getting lynched. Now we couldn't marry a girl with all her teeth because that meant she'd been to a dentist and obviously was a blue blood, not capable of sexual satisfaction ‘cept niggers raped her. Then, of course then there's the hanging, and Scarlet grows a new hymen just perfect for her fiancé Buddha Montgomery, heir to the gas station and thirty second degree Mason to boot.

All of this meant nothing to a kid growing up in a shotgun shack, living on liver gravy and bread with a flea bitten dog and a yard full of chickens, even in town. The difference between our “neighborhood” and “Nigger town” was the distance between the shacks. Theirs were closer. My most vivid memory was my uncle and dad “gigging” frogs and butchering them in the kitchen sink. All they'd eat were the legs, but they had to cut their heads off anyway, I suppose for the entertainment factor, and I'd watch them eat the frog legs while the heads blinked at them from the counter. They'd actually position the heads so they could see that. And poor old Martin Luther King tried singling “We Shall Overcome” to these guys. He's lucky he wasn't blinking from a sink.

I really did end up in a hospital when I had polio, but for minor ailments like nails in the foot,  cut throats or pneumonia, you'd get taken to some camp in the swamp where a voodoo woman would blow smoke up your ass (literally) or put a penny on the wound so the spirit of Mr. Lincoln could draw out the poison, I crappith thee not!

I went to an all white school, but let me clarify. There’s white, then there's white. The whitest kids had clean clothes and smelled good. I had neither. I usually wore a flannel shirt, and blue jeans with iron on patches. Iron on patches were the rage of the age. We was proud of iron on patches. I'd sit by the ironing board and watch in snake amazement as the patch cleaved to the fabric as if by magic. I really didn't understand the social structure in school, only the fact that certain kids could hit me anytime they wanted to. There was this spoiled brat, Vance, I still remember him, who'd seek me out and beat me up during every recess. One day, in a moment of clarity, I hit him back and he fell, crying, so I hit him again. The teachers had to pull me off, but I think that was possibly the most memorable day of my life, that is until Velma Prigmore took off her blouse under the football stand years later, but I'll save that for another chapter.

I was surrounded by family but none of us liked each other. I remember that every time there was a get together it ended up in a drunken fight with the kids all screaming, followed by that wild ride back to Shreveport across the Red River bridge with the car bouncing off the rails. The only good thing was at that age when you life flashes before your eyes it doesn't take long. I know because every time I got my ass beat my life flashed before my eyes. Usually involving blinking frog’s heads.

My life flashed before my eyes when my grandmother got a hold of me once.  I think I was five. We had this fat little dog named Maybelline. One day I had to pee, and couldn't make it so I peed on the wall in the hall. My grandmother came along, saw the pee, then me, then the dog, picked up a stick and beat puppy shit out of Maybelleline. Wow! Remember, this was the days before internet. Next day, pee a little higher, bigger thrashing for Maybelline. Finally, I decided to kill the dog. I peed about two feet ABOVE my head. Now Maybelline was about the size of a fat possum. I have to give my grandmother credit. She did everything she could to match that dog’s ass with that pee before my life flashed before MY eyes!

Louisiana people will eat just about anything, steak, road kill, all manner of guts, small negroes, you name it. After the frogs I realized my dad was crazy and I generally stuck to liver gravy at home. Wonder Bread was safe. Rice. Beyond that was pot luck. Crawfish. Oh my LIVING God! Etched into my still developing mind was the image of huddles of inbreds sucking crawfish asses. Now, I'm not saying that's wrong, some of you might suck crawfish asses, just not me. And Boudin sausage. I think there might be an FDA warning on that now. For those of you who do t know what that tastes like, take a dirty sock, piss on it, wring it out and stuff it in your mouth. There you go. Don't forget to wash it down with some of dat good ol’ Jax beer.

And Jesus? God DAMN did they have Jesus. My grandmother on my mother’s side, you know, the one who married her cousin, well, when we was living on Laurel Street, she would drag me down the the Baptist church and sit me right up there in the amen pew while this crazy old man screamed that me, and practically everyone else there was going to “hayell” and there wasn't a damn thing we could do about it except put something in that plate he had passed around. Jesus scared the piss out of me until I was twenty-eight years old! I was just glad I wasn't Catholic, and double glad I wasn't black, or God forbid a black Catholic. Hell, if I turned out to be one of those I'd have just jumped into the Red River and been done with it.

I was told, when we lived Kaywood Apartments  in Bossier City, to never go near the river.  Now this is how much common sense we had at that age, and survival skills. With God, mosquitoes, teachers, the Klan and your parents all trying to kill you, you knew damn well not to go surfing on the Red River. This factor wore off by the time you got to high school because they were forever fishing teens out from under logs where the gators had stuffed them for seasoning. Oh yeah, we had those too. See the contrast; kids these days don't know any better than to eat a dishwasher tablet and we used to play among the gators. We knew better than to eat a dishwasher tablet, one, because there weren't any, and two, if there had been we'd have ended up down on the bayou with some old black lady blowing smoke up our ass. That's called preventive medicine.

Not all things were bad. School lunches were a bitch. Till this day I have a prejudice. You see, all the school  cooks were big, fat black women, and the result was whatever they come up with. Liver and onions, fried chicken, chicken and rice and courtesy of Huey Long you could eat all you wanted. They all had them Aunt Jemima wraps on their heads, a big smile, and even bigger spoons. They would throw mashed potatoes on the plate and it would drip over the side. Even today I have a hard time eating white woman cooking to the point of giving it to the dog when she looks away. Then you'd come home on the Good Ship Reality and find your uncle and dad in the kitchen with a case of Jax beer and a croak sack full of unfortunate frogs.

Louisiana weather sucks like a French whore, and I know something about French whores because Louisiana is full of them. You can't see the tornadoes for the trees. I still remember the alert coming on the TV, the one you had to slap on the top to get reception from the station five miles away, and a very serious voice saying, “This is a severe tornado alert!” As opposed to the more mundane kind I suppose. Now, you didn't know where it was, couldn't see it, I'm told you could hear it, but that's hard from under the bed. If you lived you'd stay up all night anyway just in case it had babies on the way through. Then the next day, in school, you have a bomb drill because everyone just knew the Russians were gonna bomb Barksdale Air Force Base at any given moment. All of this and the grown ups were worried about the blacks drinking out of the wrong water fountain. But . . . they all had Jesus!

By the time we moved to Texas I was ten years old, and pretty much bat-shit crazy. Had a permanent ringing in my ears, constantly looking over my shoulder for bombs, blacks, and bloody crosses, and the scary part is I left an entire state behind that thought just like me, and they're still THERE! Well, the ones the gators didn't get. Texas was a whole new deal, and I had to work it, which has only taken me fifty-five years, six wives, ten houses and three fortunes, but I'll try to explain my philosophy in the next few chapters.

The Facebook Myth

The Facebook Myth

During my morning check of numbers I saw some statistics that were quite sobering. The reads in the trade papers have ballooned in spite of our Facebook presence being this one rather civilized page.

Facebook has made a lot of hay perpetuating the illusion that if one does not pay tribute to the God of Zuckerberg correctness you will sink into Facebook anonymity, never to be heard from again. Indeed, this power has been seized upon by self righteous hate groups who hold fame and Facebook fortune over heads like a cyber sword of Damocles. This is all a myth and outright lie!

There is a whole world out there full of sites and people serving death and destruction to the Facebook empire. As Facebook tries to influence free speech, political thought, sexual choice and even family these counter sites welcome the Army of the Dead with open arms.

Facebook has become a drug. We don't like it, we don't get the same feeling we did the first time we used it, but we can't live without it and think there's no world without it. Combine that with the range of psychotics there ranging from so-called patriot groups to free ranging FemiNazis, angry with every man who ever touched them and you have a rather stout Facebook STD.

When I landed in Facebook jail this time I took the cure. Rather that sweating out my incarceration I went to work and this morning I saw that the numbers grew far beyond anything Facebook had ever generated. Reads! Real reads, not just "likes" from some lesbian up in Philly, still pissed off because she thought she was a Facebook superstar and the reality of her psychosis crashed in on her. Reads from people who took the time to seek me out and there wasn't just a "like" button to insinuate a read from some illiterate somewhere in the obscurity of the Facebook jungle.

I'm free of the drug. I didn't spend the morning worrying about what someone wrote about me last night after their crack ran out or the insane utterances of some carnival barker in New Jersey trying to pimp his daughter or some woman ranting for hours because she was snubbed by a Facebook romance. I spent my morning counting real reads from real people with real lives. And it was glorious!

Confessions of an Islamaphobe

America’s Last Stand Confessions Of An Islamophobe
I am an islamophobe. I confess to it. I was not always so, and, to be honest, I would much prefer that this not be so now. But fear, brothers and sisters, while it is not always rational, is sometimes the only response to a threat. My fear of Islam could easily be averted; simply remove the threat of Islam from America, the land which had been promised to me in my youth. Let it be restored to the lands from whence it came. Send the Islamic refugees back to their own nations to do what was done in our land by our revolutionary fathers. Soldiers of the old guard, keepers of the faith, and witnesses to the making of this great country will understand what I mean by my cry for the fulfillment of the pledge. After all we sacrificed, after all of the sacrifice we have demanded of others, this is our country. Understand me when I say It was not implied, it was not alluded to, it was promised by word and by deed that this was our land, and that it would be the land of our children for generations to come. So, for better or worse, I am an American! But now, there is among us a growing threat. Now, imbedded into our union lies the seed of its destruction, Islam. Not the concept of Islam, oh no. We have had constitutional freedom of religion in this country all along, and folks worshipping in mosques have long been among us, and welcome too. But they were American people. American either by birth, or by naturalization. For a time, and even now, some black Americans chose Islam for one reason or another, but it never really caught on. But now, now dear readers know this: lulled into a false sense of security by the covenant established by our constitution, and by the overwhelming tide of freely available goods and services which have dulled our senses like cheap liquor, we have allowed multinational corporations, once wholly American corporations until they decided to stop supporting the nation that helped to bring them into this world, to buy our government lock, stock, and barrel, and they have decided to move foreign islamists into our nation by the tens of thousands. In a moment, I will explain how this represents a threat to America so great that I am willing to risk calling it America’s Last Stand. But first I want to point out clearly that this was accomplished in a manner that demands our attention. This is a nation governed by a body sworn to uphold the constitution. A government of the people, by the people and for the people! But power mad dividers came among us like wolves among a flock of sheep, and turned us against one another so effectively that we are as the people of Babel. Without the Union, we have nothing. Massachusetts did not defeat England! Nor did any one state. It was our union, dearly bought, and barely preserved that made a civilized world even possible. And now, we're nothing but a mob. A truly pathetic rabble spitting epithets at one another, holding opposing rallies in close proximity,exclaiming that the inevitable violence resulting from such foolishness
is the fault of the other side. The other side? What other side? We are Americans dammit! And we had better start acting like Americans again and right soon too.
Now, back to the other great menace. The Pew research center, a site I cannot recommend highly enough, finds that Islam is growing at more than twice the rate of Christianity. This ain’t because folks like getting rug burn when they pray, or that they are convinced that killing infidels will get them laid after they die, this is because, like Catholicism, Islam is a cradle to grave religion in the counties where it was established long ago by the sword. There is no tolerance for any other religion inside Islamic communities. Islamic law inevitably replaces secular laws where it takes root. Our weak, corrupt, congress is allowing the true masters, the unelected rulers of our land, to establish Islamic communities that number in the thousands in all of the strategic cities we built! And, by singular coincidence, the rate of reproduction among them is greater than that of Americans. Yeah, yet another competing ethnic group that, by sheer coincidence makes babies faster than us. I don't know about you, but I already feel like a stranger in a strange land. What kind of place will our children inherit? And let us not forget that ISIS is right under our noses in Mexico, running most of the cartels. How long until the tunnels used to ferry drugs, guns, and money are used to bring armed insurgents onto our very soil?
The only way to end this is the way our forefathers did it. The time has come for a party. A Tea party. And, by God, an American Tea Party that must be open to populists of every stripe. Not just former republicans, or libertarians , but disenfranchised democrats too. That's what I am. Neither party is giving ordinary citizens anything they need. Every American needs to swallow their prejudices and join hands to take back our government community by community. It won't happen easily, any more that it was easy for our forefathers. We cannot do it part time. We will suffer every harm that the oil companies, and big pharma and the rest of those bloated parasites will be capable of bringing down on us. But should we fail to do our duty, should we abandon our watch, then we deserve the scorn reserved for the lowest among us, cowards.
So, if you are an Islamophobe like me, raise up your voice. Contact your local Tea Party representative. Get involved. Make friends with people unlike you in any way except that they too are Americans who wish to hold their ground. Stop, I say stop criticizing other Americans for their party affiliation. We do not have a political problem, we have a problem with the Union. It's sick, and likey to die if we do not act.
Some will say I am speaking out against freedom; and so I am. I am against the freedom that is being exercised by those who would bring a virulent ideology into our nation, without a kiss my foot, or by your leave, that's for sure. Is it ironic that in order to preserve America's freedom, we must suppress that of others? It has ever been so. And so it shall always be.

Copyright 2017 Clevenger & Witt

Fight Them There or Fight Them Here

Fight Them Over Here Or
Fight Them Over There 
On November 21st 2015 then president George W. Bush, echoing the words of Winston Churchill, said of Muslim terrorists, we fight them over there so we don't have to fight them over here. Let us reflect a moment on that. Not for the first time have I wished that the dead might testify. If such a thing might be I would ask the unconsoled dead of the terror bombing in Manchester, or those mangled in the attacks in London how that has worked out for them. What cautionary advice might those innocents provide for us from beyond the grave? Since President Bush's’ explanation for our military actions in the Middle East, our foreign policy as to where we intend to fight the enemy has shifted westward around 5000 miles. The refugee act of 1980 set the stage for bringing in roughly three million refugees based on the noble proposition that those who are well off have a responsibility to give refuge to persons fleeing persecution or tyranny. Setting aside the fact that few, if any of those refugees have been settled into gated communities, resettling refugees from countries to which we brought war and poverty, the very things they seek refuge from, seems to spring, not from compassion, but from questionable reasoning; perhaps outright stupidity. Does anyone really believe that it's a good idea to take those whose fundamentalist ideology is so directly at odds with our own, and settle them in the midst of our unsuspecting citizenry? Given the state of division suffered by the American people, do we really want a few hundred thousand resentful citizens of our enemy nations escorted into our midst, that they might serve as the focus for further division? Islam is a competing ideology! Islam forthrightly rejects those forms of religion which currently coexist peacefully in America. When Muslim clerics pronounce that the only acceptable end game describes one religion, Islam, for the world, and we provide transportation, housing, food, and necessities to practitioners of Islam, what does that say about our leaders, and their support for the polyglot of American religions who have no defense against jihad? About 84,000 refugees have been settled in America under the Obama administration. Is it Elitism? Is it yet another attack on labor? Are we bringing in yet more cheap labor? Or is it something darker? 
I once worked with a defense lawyer who told me that the least important aspect of probable cause was motive, as means and opportunity lend themselves so much more handily to building a forensic case. But I for one want more than anything else to know why. Why are we settling such a corrosive influence on our culture right here in the heart of the homeland? I have tried to learn both directly and indirectly from my own congressmen, and from others. What I encountered was a wall of indifference. Personally, I feel that 880 million dollars ought to at least buy us some answers, if not a better congress. My heart goes out to those in Europe, whose constituents have no second amendment. At least in America we have an immediate first line of defense. I'll bet more than one dead Englishman wishes he or she had been carrying something more deadly than a cell phone on London bridge. That way they might at least have fought them where they were; right in their midst. 

The Death of Free Speech. Facebook and the Faceless

The Death Of Free Speech
Facebook And The Faceless
Well, it looks like the grownups are moving back to print media when they have a dissenting opinion to voice. That's because on social media today, dissenting voices are shouted down, cyber bullied, or treated to outright criminal behavior. Criminal behavior which goes entirely unopposed by services such as Facebook.
There is a truth out there for advertisers of self made products today, and that is that you must have a Facebook account if you wish to promote your products to the public in an affordable and hassle free way. If you provide any service from furniture repair to escort services, Facebook is, well, not the only game in town, but in terms of viewer participation it is certainly your first choice. Facebook live has also begun to make inroads into youtube’s venue, providing members with lots of opportunities to update their status in a live video format, or, in the case of some people,give us access gawk at real time murders, beatings or rapes. Now, Facebook has made it clear through their spokespersons that they want folks to have a following limited to family and real friends (excepting celebrities, politicians, and, of course, rich or powerful people). In other words, if you are among the little folk, your friends list should not exceed, say, 35 people. That is not to say that this has always been the case, but as the end game being played out by the global giants moves into yet another stage, the idea is to keep little people useful as consumers, while promoting others up the ladder. For a fee. Poorly planned, and virtually ignored by the app developers, and more importantly the upper management structure, facebook is encountering some troubles that may well cause their market value to plummet, or worse. These problems are systemic, and reflect with astonishing clarity the problems faced by today’s American citizen. But that’s a different article. In a nutshell here is the problem. Facebook naturally wants ordinary people of ordinary means to be subjected to direct and indirect advertising; or as I like to call it, mind control. This gives them ready made markets with the cattle separated into convenient lots for sale to advertisers, guaranteeing them by a 28% margin, improved sales, and also that you will remain docile and conveniently at hand. So far so good. But this is where the plan Zucks for folks selling entertainment or opinion. When I opened my facebook account, it was so that I could share my life online with my familly and my close friends. As I began to share cooking videos, and video about the life I live as a truck driver, it attracted a larger group of viewers. Slowly, my friends group grew. It's no great revelation that I have political views that are not slavish hurrahs for the state of our union, but as I looked around Facebook I saw many sites that were. Being a maverick, I began to publish my thoughts on Tea Party sites. Despite the fact that my thoughts were in opposition to mainstream conservative thought, they
were published there, and well liked. I decided to take my thoughts onto facebook live, and again, I found success. I was elated. This was a way to reach a broader audience in order to promote my own political agenda, which is the revival of the Tea Party, and the reunification of the American people under our flag. Sadly, there were others with different ideas. First, I was told to shut up by some low level operatives known as Trolls ( a pretty descriptive name). Then came some cyber bullying; the usual stuff, you're ugly, you're an idiot, somebody should shut your mouth for you. We all know the stuff. Finally, someone used burps repeater to forcibly overcome my authentication code, and suddenly I had nearly 400 new friends in 3 days. At first I was excited. Many of these requests were from overseas, and I thought, here was a golden opportunity to show people over there what America was really about, and how to lead their own nations in better directions. To my horror though, they were nearly all people selling sex or drugs. A little research showed that two of my new “friends” were on a terrorist watchlist.
Now here is the real zinger. When I tried to report this to Facebook, I discovered you cannot contact Facebook. That's right! The rape of a child being viewed by millions live on Facebook would be news that the Facebook administrative staff would find out about on USA Today, just like the rest of us. Whaaaaat????!! Really? You create a community, an international community that can share anything from moms recipe for dumplings to where America’s greatest vulnerabilities lie, and you don't take calls warning you that this is happening on your watch? You may as well be shouting it at the far side of the moon as to alert the people responsible for creating that environment in which it is happening! Now, I’m no critic, but to me that's worse than irresponsible. I guess our prayers really can't be heard in paradise.
Anyways, I disabled my site, because I didn't want human trafficking and illegal drug sales being conducted on my site. Further, I won’t be returning to Facebook anytime soon. Even in the unlikely event that they should set up something so simple as a serial port access monitor, or an algorithm prohibiting the use of repeaters on users pages (God knows Facebook can’t afford anything like that), Facebook is riddled with operatives from political organizations, NGO’s, foreign intelligence agencies, and just plain mean people with great web skills coupled with potty training issues.
Bottom line? The grown ups are moving back into print media. Here at least, an administrator may decline to print an article, but the writer is free to seek publication elsewhere. Here we have our constitutional right to free speech.
Here is where the grown ups come to read.