I think I’ve made view of abortion quite clear.
“We’re gonna teach the angels how to fly.” So uttered June Montgomery one second before she died in a car crash at the end of the book, “CigarBox.” There was some literary license taken in that book. Through all the edits over the years, the final version is vastly different from the first draft, but there is a back story within the pages that has remained constant, and a central character who was a real person, silently growing up in the shadow of events swirling around him. The truth behind CigarBox boiled down to a simple ring, and a little boy who never forgot.
In the late nineties a young woman, her three-year-old son, and two girlfriends were racing across Jonesboro, Arkansas to a Christmas party. They apparently ran through a stop sign, crossing into the path of an SUV, which slammed into the side of their small car, killing the mother, one of her friends, and pitching the baby out through a side window, skidding him across the highway, bouncing him off a chain link fence, finally depositing in a field with two broken legs. The car spun and objects within it flew out into the road. One particular object was a cigar box, resting on the seat. Inside were pictures, letters, and then there was a ring. The first responders gathered up as much as they could, removed the dead, and the cigar box.
His parents were divorced. His father was staying with us in Texas. It was a bitter divorce; with all the frills you’d expect on “Dallas.” We got the call at noon, during Christmas dinner. The information was confused, and we were sure little Michael was dead, as was his mother. I stayed back in Texas to maintain the house, but everyone else rushed to Arkansas. When they got there the doctors told them that the baby, while being scraped up a bit, and with two broken legs, was going to be fine. There was no logical explanation as to how he got out of the car during the impact. The doctors said he just flew across that highway like Mighty Mouse. The baby became known as “Mighty.” Mighty came home to Texas, as did the cigar box.
Mighty’s dad became a police officer. He tried to join the Marines, but a bad ear kept him out. Later he would go to the Middle East to fight terrorists as a private contractor. He could hear terrorists just fine with his right ear. We raised Mighty in the big house at Berry Creek. He walked slightly bow legged, due to his injuries, and he loved to eat. In later years it was hard to get that boy up for school, and if you didn’t stay right on him he’d miss that bus every time. On the shelf of the study sat the cigar box. Our family was Catholic. In the second year of my marriage to Mighty’s grandmother I had become Catholic. I wanted the four boys we were raising to have a good moral structure, and I found that attending Mass provided for that need. My boys fell right into the flow of the church. They had Father Everette, and all the people there, and Sunday was actually fun. My wife was divorced from Mighty’s grandfather in Arkansas, and the family was filled with hate. I had two boys, and she had two, and there was much animosity between them, animosity that remains until this day, but Mighty didn’t know about all that.
Years and tears went by, my wife’s son Bobby died, my son Timmy turned to drugs and went to prison, Wilbur did well in the Navy, but he lived in California so we rarely saw him, and Michael went over to Afghanistan to find Bin Laden. A girl named Jackie came and went, and there were five new little guys, but in spite of Jackie’s story there was another one, one we didn’t talk about, and on the shelf, in the study, was the cigar box. And so it came to pass, between my wife’s heart attack, and Jackie’s legal problems the family was torn apart. The house in Berry Creek was reduced to “empty chairs.” But, Little Mighty grew. We hardly noticed little Mighty quietly growing up, not attracting much attention to himself. He loved to run up to the Country Club where there was a concession stand that served burgers outside, and Mighty had an open account. I had been very strong in my faith, but after all that happened I fell away. I still believed in God, but all the trappings of the Church were not as important to me anymore. I never questioned what had happened, I just adjusted and went on. I grew very used to being alone. Women can have emotional problems, men are not afforded that luxury.
Mighty eventually moved into his father’s new house about sixty miles away. While his dad worked his job overseas, he lived with his dad’s girlfriend. I don’t know her, but I understand the anger of the years has rested on he Her now, so the animosity lives on. Mighty began to go to the Church. Then, quietly, he began to take his classes. Then, he brought the family together to witness his confirmation. They all stopped and watched as Mighty made his mark on the family. During that ceremony, he showed my now ex-wife a ring. I wasn’t there. I’m very distant from the family now, and haven’t been to church in years. The hate finally won, and my thirty years of marriage dissolved like cotton candy. The ring he showed her was a simple thing. A little silver thing with a cross on it. He told her, “Grandpa gave me this when I was a little boy. I saved it for this day.” Then, he slipped it onto his finger. I didn’t tell him where that ring came from. During the confusion of that awful Christmas I opened the cigar box on my desk. Inside were simple things. A lock of hair, a child’s drawing, and a little silver ring. I had never seen it before, but I kept it in a desk drawer until the boy was old enough to keep up with it because I suspected that someone else had worn it on that eventful day so long ago in Arkansas.
Mighty recently completed his USMC basic, and went to his assignment with the Corps. On his finger was a little silver ring with a cross on it. A gift from his mother, before she taught the angels how to fly. And, Mighty’s gift to me, from a little boy who never forgot. The cigar box has long ago been lost, but no matter. “June Montgomery” made her mark.
When I woke up this morning
And Stared out the window
I could not believe what I had done
I’d wrote a hot check to Jesus
For ten thousand dollars
When my bank account only held thirty-one!
As you know, I don’t get into all this “end of the world” stuff. That having been said, I sat up watching two documentaries last night. The last one was a movie about Flight 93 and it had a profound effect on me. Also, I’d been reading up on the nature of Islam, and 9/11 for about three days, and, of course, I had to weed through all the conspiracy theories. I’m not going to say conspiracy “nuts” because I caught a couple of tidbits that got my attention. One was the analyzation of the second hit on the twin towers and the wing of the plane distinctly goes behind a building that was behind the Trade Center. I understand digital rendering, but I believe there were real planes hitting those buildings simply because there were too many people who were there and saw it. George Bush didn’t fly, buy, or arrange those planes, Islam did, and when I say that I mean all of Islam. Those who weren’t on the planes were standing on the rooftops cheering. That’s ‘cause they hate us folks!
I want to give you what’s called a dichotomy.
- a division or contrast between two things that are or are represented as being opposed or entirely different.
“a rigid dichotomy between science and mysticism”
|synonyms:||contrast, difference, polarity, conflict;|
Ask yourself, if El Chapo were to have his way, just what do you suppose he’d do? Would he seek to totally destroy the very culture, and economy that buys his “product?” Now Chapo is evil, ok. I mean, he leaves sacks of heads in the police parking lot, but he doesn’t want to burn down America, or every other country for that matter, and he doesn’t care if you pray to a water melon! Then there is Islam. Islam is kinda like that pretty girl you run across who seems to be everything you’ve ever wanted until you find out she’s got the clap! It came from an ignorant man who could not read. For the record, Jesus could read! The Prophet of Islam drifted along, and when he wasn’t diddling little girls he was babbling some nonsense that he claimed came from an other-worldly source.
I’m gonna get real with you, ok? I do believe in revelations between the Creator and man, but no angel appeared in a cave. Well, maybe appeared in Mohammed’s crazy mind. I mean, people can claim anything. The Prophet, Penn Jillette once told me, “If you are mystified you just don’t understand the trick!” Someone gives you a “cock and bull” story, and the dots just don’t seem to connect, so what to do? Well, if you have the “faith” you ignore the dots and go trucking right on. A warm fuzzy will take you a long way. I’ve read the “Holy Qu’ran” folks, and it’s a “cock and bull “story. I’ve read the Book of Mormon, too, and I don’t believe that either, but at least Joseph Smith knew what a through line was. As a matter of fact, while I’m on that story, look at the way the Book of Mormon is laid out, and then look at the Qu’ran, and you will very easily see what is wrong with the Arab mind. Uh, they’re crazy! The “revelations” track very closely to Mohammed’s life and situation at the time. The whole book sounds like an old Flip Wilson routine. The devil made him do it! Don’t believe me? Just check out the Satanic Verses. Old Mo’ want’s had a wife or two that didn’t follow the party line, so he comes up with “goddesses.” When the brethren questioned this he claimed he got his wires crosses and picked up a call from the Devil. Inspiration? There was a scribe who traveled a great distance to work with “the prophet.” During one session the scribe suggested rewording a passage, and Mohammed said, “Yeah, that’s cool. Write that.” I am a realist. I’ve become one over many years, and it has served me well. When Jesus said, “Blessed are the poor,” Matthew didn’t say, “Hey, J. C., better make that ‘Blessed are the underprivileged,” and Christ said, “Yeah, put that in.” And, I’ve been up here with the Mormons for most of a month, but I’m not going to jellyfish. You tell me some kid found eighty-eight pounds of gold and didn’t pawn in and I’m gonna laugh right in your friggin’ face!
Now that I’ve ticked off the guys who bought my meal in Salt Lake City on Easter, the Mormons follow their book and look at what they do. Knock on your door and ask you to read the book. The Muslims follow their book and what do they do. Kill your fifteen-year-old daughter for wearing lip stick! Radical Muslims want to kill your daughter. Moderate Muslims want Radical Muslims to kill your daughter. Like the homies in Killeen say, “Whomp! Dey it is!” Western thought is the end product of the evolution of mankind. Now I said Western thought. That includes all things western! The white man, the black white man, and yes, even El Chapo. We see things a certain way, a way that the Oriental mind can never come to grips with. When El Chapo delivers that sack of heads, at least he knows he’s wrong. When those fools boarded the planes of 9/11 they really thought they were going to that big whorehouse in the sky. Swat them bees! Hey! Seventy-two virgins? Give me a break. Know why Jesus wasn’t born in Mecca? ‘Cause they couldn’t find three wise men and a virgin, that’s why!
The picture on this article was something I stumbled across this morning over coffee. I got it from a video someone sent me. At first I laughed it off, but the guy made a profound point. The Greek letters for “666” spell “in the name of Allah” in Arabic. It’s black and white, folks. I’ve done dozens of articles about Revelation, and written a book, Sharon, about universality. I know how words can be twisted over centuries to make them say just about anything you want, and I know the arguments about the “historical” Jesus. The way I see it God gave me a brain for a reason, and it wasn’t to parrot behind some camel driver, or some deranged preacher with a Bible in one hand, and a collection plate in the other, it was to use that brain to explain what God really meant, as far as I understand it, and when I meet Jesus, if I ever do, and He tells me I got it all wrong, I would much rather take a butt whipping from Jesus than a blessing from Mohommed!
Theology is man’s feeble attempt to explain the unexplainable. Theology is the greatest “dot connector” of all time, but the litmus test is if your theology hurts someone then God has nothing to do with it. God gathers, Satan scatters. I can’t count the times some “force” got between me and catastrophe. I’ve recently seen two little boys delivered from the bottom of a swimming pool safe when they should have been dead! I believe in that God. That’s not saying that bad things don’t happen. If you stand up for Jesus he doesn’t have to give you a butt whipping, the world will! It’s called picking up your cross. Hey, I read that in the Bible. (And ya’ll thought I was an old “Reptile Bait” huh?)
I said in the beginning of this article that I don’t buy into the “end of the world” stuff, but I do understand that the Arabs have been assembling for over fourteen hundred years to destroy everything that isn’t what they consider “holy.” We, as civilized men and women cannot tolerate that, and be it, Revelation, Armageddon, or just good ol’ World War III, we have to rid the earth of their shadow. We have to maintain whatever we define as faith, be it Mormon or Methodist, or just the little church on the corner, and not write a “Hot Check to Jesus.”
A Texas state of mind is a powerful thing. It impedes me at times. Sometimes, when I come upon a story it hits me so hard that I have to let it brew for a couple of days before I comment. That’s because the media world is so filled with gay, panty waist, politically correct fools that my initial idea would be too strong for them. Take the story of Father Tom. ISIS works overtime to show their asses. Hey, sometimes you just gotta tell it like it is. First off, I’m a racist. Isn’t that refreshing? A white guy who just comes out with that and tells people who disagree to shove it. I think that most all Arabs are greasy, illiterate, woman hating queers who rape five-year-old l little girls and won’t eat a ham sandwich. That comes from having seen Arabs who are greasy, illiterate woman hating queers who rape five-year-old little girls, and won’t eat a ham sandwich. Then, there are Muslims, and last, but not least, there is ISIS.
Now ISIS isn’t unique. Arabs have had these kinds of idiots for millennia. And, it’s always the same. They find some passage in the “Holy Kolan,” and, no, I didn’t misspell that, that’s how these sand bunnies pronounce it, and take said passage to mean kill everything! On a good day they chop the head off a teenage girl for wearing Levis, and our government call them our “allies.” (We killed Hitler for less, folks.) So, ISIS reached into its bag of tricks and came up with the most offensive thing they could do. Crucify a Catholic Priest on Easter! Like I said, a Texas state of mind is a powerful thing. When I first read this I wanted to kill every Arab on the Planet, their wives, kids, grandkids, dogs, cats, and they guy who washed their car. Hey, that’s just me. I’ve modified my stance. I’m gonna let the guy in the car wash go.
This is what it takes, people! If you turn the other cheek with these jokers, they’ll just cut your head off from the left side. There is a vast gulf between a bunch of Mormons who don’t want you in their temple unless you obey their rules, and a religion that plans the extermination of the human race, including their own people, based on the idiotic ramblings of a pedophile. Now, ya’ll know me, and my views of organized religion. I don’t buy into all this “Satan” crap, but I gotta say, if you show me a philosophy designed to eradicate the entire human race, I’ll show you Satan!
When ISIS hit Texas we killed them. If they come back, we’ll re-kill them. If they keep messing with Texas, you will see the day when a woman in a Burqua shopping at H. E. B. will be refused service. When they crowd the streets you will see people with baseball bats, and yes, guns! Don’t Mess With Texas. I’m a former Catholic. I became a former Catholic when the Pope declared the Bible and Qu’ran of equal status. Islam is not a religion, it is a system, and it is not peaceful.
This is a hard teaching, and many will walk away, but folks, somebody had to say it. We have to hate these people. It’s not against the law to hate someone who is trying to kill you and your family. It’s not against the law to be raging mad at a gentle man being nailed to a cross because some pervert thinks it’s funny, and it’s not against the law to kick their asses out of Texas, and hopefully the USA, too. It’s against natural law to be led like a lamb to slaughter. I am not a lamb, and got my ticket to hell a long time ago. That’s a Texas state of mind. Pray for Father Tom, ‘cause he’s damn sure praying for you!
Nothing like getting your hand caught in the old cookie jar! First off one shouldn’t believe anything they read in the National Enquirer. I remember when they used to run pictures of monkeys with cigarettes in their mouths, claiming aliens had landed. That having been said, over the years, their score card has improved. And so it is with Ted Cruz. Ted accused the reporter, Roger Stone of copulating with rodents. Certain learned individuals have suggested that Cruz sue the Enquirer, but he won’t. Wanna know why? Cause he probably did it, that’s why!
Ouch, Ouch, swat them bees. Trump denied having anything to do with this one, but after Cruz did that spread on Don’s wife’s butt, Trump said he’s drop a bomb on him and here we are. I think there are up to about thirty-five butts in this mess. I’d love to get into this, but I’m going to be honest. Simple ol’ boy time here. Do you really think that Ted Cruz has been screwing around that much? I mean, it is possible, but c’mon. He reads fairy tales to his daughter during his filibuster against ObamaCare, he dances with her during breaks in the debates, he’s more public than GOD, and his wife hangs with him all the time. Roger Stone is a sleaze bag liar.
I said last week that I wasn’t going to get into this mud anymore, and I won’t. The Trump train churns on, but he really needs to distance himself with this kind of thing. One on one, without the drama, Trump will trump Cruz. He’s just too strong, and this is his time. Sometime in twenty years or so, Ted will return, and do something great, but this is not the year. That’s not so bad. Donald Trump has stirred up a populist revolution, and Ted, unfortunately, is part of the very thing that the revolution is revolting against. Ted is still a rising star. Heck, look at Hillary. Losing Alaska to Sanders by eighty percent. The cold never bothered her anyway. The Bush era died with Jeb, and Hillary will be the last of the MoClintons. Trump is a definite change of direction.
If Donald Trump is going to give himself dignity then he needs to control his temper, and Tweets, and start to at least act presidential. Finding Ted Cruz’s wallet in a whorehouse is not good politics. Attacking his voting record, and policies is. Trump is sharp, and he’s basically a nice guy. The country is gravitating toward him. Use that! If you wanna slander Cruz, just keep reminding folks that he’s a United States Senator, that’ll do it. You don’t have to mess with his wife or supposed girlfriends, just run pictures of him in front of the capitol. Now there’s a whorehouse if I ever saw one. And, like I said, over the years Cruz will hone his skills, develop his style, and who knows, maybe, someday, he will have a shot.
Meanwhile, don’t believe anything you read in the Enquirer. The Main Stream Media is bad enough, I mean, you’re reading me for information, ok? I support Trump because the country needs a change, not because there’s anything fundamentally wrong with Ted Cruz, and I certainly do not think he is an immoral man. In fact, I’m offended by that accusation. I’m a Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin, and the image of Cruz dancing with his daughter is stuck in my head. On the other hand, I need publicity. Hey, Rodger! Did you know that I once lived with three dancers in a double wide trailer and changed my citizenship to marry another girl before I took off to New York on a blind date, leaving my family behind? That’ll look good on the front page. And here’s her picture not blurred out. I’m the goofy one on the left.
It is Friday evening. The small girl knelt before the tabernacle to pray. She took out her Rosary, and loosened the white scarf that was around her head. Letting it drape loosely she began, “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and earth. I believe in his only Son, our Lord, Jesus Christ. . . ” As she prayed, she thought of each part of the prayer. The Rosary is a mental, as much as a verbal prayer. The repetition of the little prayers put her into the meditative state she was familiar with. She began to feel a warm glow. The rosary beads started to feel silky as she worked them between her fingers.
“Hail Mary, full of grace
The Lord is with thee.
Blessed art Thou among women
And blessed is the fruit of Thy womb,
Holy Mary, mother of God
Pray for us sinners
Now, and at the hour of our death.”
Again and again, slowly, imperceptibly, the petite young girl’s voice faded to a whisper, and then began to sound like small pouts. Then it was gone completely. Her eyes were fixed on the statue of the mother of Jesus, but her soul was not behind them.
She found herself in a crowded passageway. People were crowding in from every side. The air was cool, yet the putrid odors of a large city alleyway were hanging all about. All the shoving and excitement seemed to be centered somewhere down the alley from where she stood, and it was moving in her direction.
Two ancient soldiers were shoving people out of the way. They threatened with their swords, raising them above their heads, and waving them about. She could see that the swords were sharp and weighty. She was well aware that even a small blow from them would be serious. The crowd was appreciative of this, causing them to steer clear of the soldiers when the tempers appeared to flare.
These were hard men. They had hard eyes, and they needed a shave. They smelled like sweat. Their uniforms, if they could be called that, were dirty. Their helmets were not shiny and new, but used, very used. They were using a language that she could not understand. As the lead soldier came near her she recoiled, but he put his left hand out and shoved her backwards anyway, not so much that she was in his way, but he used the action to demonstrate his authority to the rest of the crowd. Mashing his hand into her nose and eyes, giving a squeeze as he pushed, further showed his position of authority. His hand was dirty, too. She instinctively took her scarf and put it to her nose.
The crowd became very agitated and she saw other men coming up the alley, surrounded by soldiers. The soldiers around these men were shielding them from the crowd. She could tell that the crowd had mixed feelings, some appeared angry with the men, and others looked sympathetic. Each man had a huge crossbeam on his shoulders. She was stunned by the size of the beams. They weren’t smooth at all, but rough and splintery. Great grooves ran the length of the beams. Large iron rings were fastened to either end. Each of the three men was tied to these beams. As they approached she could see that the beam had rubbed their backs raw, down to the muscle. How the men stood the pain was beyond her. Just then the lead man tripped and fell. The force of his fall broke the ranks of the soldiers, and he crashed down at her feet, the weight of the beam forcing his face into the stone of the walkway. He left drops of blood on the stones where he fell. She looked down at him as he pulled himself up, resting his weight on one knee. He looked into her eyes. The soldier behind him started to raise his sword. She thought that perhaps he would strike her, but it didn’t matter. Looking into those eyes was the perfect time to die. He was in pain, but his eyes didn’t show it. They’d broken his nose, but she could tell that it had been an exquisite nose. His beard was full, but well kept. She could see it was saturated with blood, too. His hair hung down stringy, filled with blood and sweat. She could see that it extended a length down his back almost to his waist. They had put a “crown” on his head, a crown made of briars. It had cut into the flesh very deep. One cheek was smashed in. It was not the face of an intellectual. It was the face of a working man. Still, this description doesn’t do the face justice. She’d seen this face a thousand times, on road gangs, in homeless shelters, yet it was all of these, and none of these. With one look at the face she was sorry for everything she’d ever done. With the sight of the raised sword still at the edge of her field of vision, she raised the scarf in her hands and wiped the face.
He closed his eyes, and struggled to get up. With a great effort he raised himself to his feet, and began to stumble down the cobblestones with the soldiers all around him. She followed with the crowd. Near the wall he fell again. This time the soldiers had enough delay, and took the beam from his shoulders. The cuts were much worse than she’d thought. The cross beam had relentlessly bore down into the gaping wounds. As the men pulled the beam off his worn shoulders, torn flesh clung to it. The man winced, but did not cry out.
They grabbed a man from the crowd and pointed to the beam. Even though she couldn’t understand what was being said, she knew the man was being ordered to carry the beam for the prisoner who’d fell. He obviously didn’t want to, but the authority of the soldiers was clear. She could see that any refusal, any hesitation, might even put the beam on the man’s shoulders for real!
The crossbeam now repositioned, they all went through the outer wall at the perimeter of the city. They stumbled up a little rocky rise and some of the soldiers held the crowd back. The three prisoners were put on the ground. They were stripped down to a loincloth that each one had, and each was placed upon their respective beams. Leather bags were produced, and large hammers brought out. The men were stretched on the beams. While some soldiers held them down, another centurion would get a nail from the sack. Two of the men did not cooperate and one soldier struck one of them with the flat of his sword, knocking him unconscious. The nails were pressed into the wrists of each man, and driven all the way through into the beam with a single blow. The man, whose face she’d wiped, moaned a little. The other conscious man screamed something at the soldiers, and they slapped him.
When they were all firmly attached they were stood and ropes were run through the rings on the ends of the beams. The soldiers then threw the ropes over the tops of some upright posts that were situated on the little rise. Balancing the ropes so they would not fall to the side, they heaved each man onto a precut slot in his particular upright post, which was already firmly planted into the ground. Then a soldier went to each condemned man and put a single nail through his overlapping feet.
Then the guards threw all the possessions of the prisoners on the ground, then began to divide them up. She stood there with the others and looked up at the men on the crosses. This was not glorious, it was horrible! It was perhaps the most sickening sight she’d ever seen in her life! They were all straining against the nails in their feet to lift themselves up so they could breathe, and each effort to do so produced a moan, or a scream. With each beat of the heart the blood oozed from the wrists of the condemned, but she could tell that it was not from the loss of blood that death would come, but from the battle they were fighting for breath.
She could see some women on the far side of the rise, some crying and wringing their hands. One was on her knees. Tears streamed from her bright blue eyes, but she did not cry out. She kept her eyes directly on the man in the center. She breathed when he breathed. She shuddered when he shuddered. A young man was standing behind her with his hands resting on her shoulders. He was staring into the dying man’s face. The man on the center cross told him something, but she could not understand what it was. The man put his arms around the woman, then led her away down the rise.
Hours passed. During all this time there was no relief in the struggle to breathe. Every now and then one of the men would be still, perhaps hoping death would intervene, and end the agony, and one of the soldiers would go over and poke him with a spear, or sword until they screamed. Finally, the man in the center cried out, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani!”
The soldiers looked up. One walked over and got a long stick. He fixed a sponge onto it and dipped it into a clay jar of clear liquid. Walking over to the center cross he thrust the sponge into the man’s mouth!
At this point she folded the scarf used to dry the face, and placed it carefully into her pocket.
It took me three days to drive up to Utah, and my hands paid for it. Had the same problem when I went up to Long Island to fetch my third ex-wife. Naturally, if your hands hurt you don’t tend to write much, but you think a lot! You think about things like, “Why am I sitting outside in twenty degrees smoking a cigarette, and where is there a cup of coffee with coffee involved?” I think the entire state of Utah is a park, and it should be. It’s almost as if they planned this place.
You simply cannot come here and not be aware of religion. Hence, the first article to come out this week was The Farm Boy, The Angel, and the Religion of Peace. It is said that there are two angels that look over you. One, on your right shoulder is a nice guy, who preaches to you about the Ten Commandments, and the other one is a bit like Clint Eastwood. The Mormons used to be bad, and I mean Porter Rockwell bad, but sometime after they dispensed with all them wives they got politically correct. As the Beatles once sang, “Get back to where you once belonged!” When it comes to a bunch of camel jockeys vs real Americans, my money goes on the Americans every time. The LDS people have been dormant for over a hundred years, but I think if they ever wake up Allah will have something to contend with.
Utah went for Ted Cruz in their caucus. Ted used his usual, mealy-mouth, snake in the grass, dirty trick, running a picture of Donald Trump’s wife from another life to secure it. When Don’s wife Lost the Caucus, I was taken aback, but then I learned the real demographics of Utah politics i.e. the old ladies run the state! Old Mormon ladies take a dim view of naked butts. Being an old “Reptile Bait,” myself, I hadn’t noticed. (I was too busy looking at her butt!) Combine this with the fact that I went up to about six-thousand feet here, and got into a whiskey drinking contest with my retired Navy brother in law, and God dimmed the light of my wisdom. I’ll always feel that I lost the state of Utah for Trump because of a hangover, but I digress.
I just love it when I find that someone is a bigger scumbag than I am, and by golly I found two this week. Your Wife is So Ugly goes into the comments and re-Tweets between Donald Trump, and Ted Cruz, as they try to figure out who’s old lady is the bigger floozy! Now Ted came up short here. He’s just married, but Don! He’s got it all figured out. After he wears out one wife, he just marries another world class model. It’s good to be the king! Hey. . . works for me! Cruz blubbered like a little girl after Trump put up a picture of his wife’s face, and Trump counter attacked by paying the National Enquirer to run pictures of all of Ted’s girlfriends. These guys are running for president! Poor Obama just danced a tango down in South America somewhere, but the wife war took the media by storm. I’d love to take the moral high ground, and say I was offended by all this, but I’m not. I’ve been married six times, and under Texas law I have one tag left on my “Dear” license. But, wait! Under the ruling of the Supreme Court there is a slim possibility that polygamy could be reinstated. Then, I could find me three or four of these Mormon chicks, marry them all, and count that as one marriage. I shoulda been a lawyer, really, I should.