Just as we know that the terrorists hitting the World Trade Center in New York, and the Pentagon in Arlington, Virginia, was the result of a grand conspiracy cooked up by  that conspiracy savant, George W. Bush, we also know that Adolph Hitler did not commit suicide in the "Fuhrerbunker" just 24 hours after marrying his little frauleine, Eva Braun.  After some seventy years of being the henpecked Herr Fuhrer, he might have wished he did.

Shussh!

Can you keep a secret?

I'm quitting. And what I'm quitting could cost me dearly.

I'm quitting the Vast Right Wing Conspiracy (VRWC)

I'm tossing over with my Liberal Brothers and Sisters, who sometimes like to be called "progressives", but never socialists or communists or Marxists.

My reason for switching is easy. I want to go back to my youth and be enraged over issues like war, "the establishment", the "man" and the earth.

It won't be hard to hop into the Wayback Machine. I was there when it started, and I have a good, a very good memory.

I will return to the days of my youth, grow beard again, smoke dope, get righteous and look for some over -the- hill hippie chicks that are bound to be on some lost commune somewhere.

Peace, Love and Understanding! That will be me, personified. 

Before I left though, I took all the secrets of the VRWC and will expose them as time goes on, but first I will tell my new Liberal Brothers and Sisters how to take down the average and above average Conservative.

It's so easy, yet it's so rarely tried.

Pay attention:

1. Learn to talk Conservative's Language -- Most liberals fail at this, because they are so polar opposite of Conservatives. Understand that Conservatives don't automatically hate the United States and blame it for all the world ills. Conservatives think the US does more good in the world than bad. Conservatives usually bristle at the idea of using tax dollars to underwrite welfare and social programs and even despise corporate welfare, a surprise to most liberals. Most Conservatives don't like government at any level intruding on their lives, something my new Liberal associates clamber for all all times. Conservatives, by and large, are happy people, unlike Liberals who are always complaining.

Forty years ago today I thought I was going to die.

So did my father, and so did my mother.

We were under attack for something we did not do.

My father had loaded shotguns at the ready, and my sisters and I were told to stay away from the windows.

Martin Luther King had been killed. Assassinated.

Cities were burning. Chicago was burning.

Martin Luther King, to me, is not some historical figure. He is much closer and real. 

To me, he was a man who delivered a mixed message. He advocated racial equality and tolerance, and asked white people, who in many, many cases treated black people badly, to judge by the content of character and not the color of skin. Yet, his being around seemed to just ignite the flames of hatred from the black and white. 

Martin Luther King came around here. He marched in Marquette Park, a mostly Polish and Lithuanian neighborhood. The people who witnessed his marches were fresh off the boat, mostly. They were struggling. They were having about as bad a time as the average "Negro" back then. They were "DP's". Once "DP's" meant "Displaced Persons", a term from the diaspora of World War II. Then, as these refugees tried to assimilate into American, "DP" came to mean "Dumb Polock". It didn't matter if they were from Croatia or Lithuania, they were all lumped together.

In my house, my parents used to talk about King. My mother, a radical herself, knew what King was doing. He was using the tactics of a well known activist (at the time), Saul Alinky. Alinsky knew that to draw a crowd and to draw sympathy from the media and others, you went and punched the beast in the belly. You headed for trouble. And when it found you, you pointed out how wronged you were.

King's marching though Marquette Park produced the usual haters and brick throwers and name callers.

If the KKK had marched through Bronzeville, or another Southside neighborhood, the rock throwers and name callers would be out there, too.

Forty years ago today, we were afraid for our lives. The guns were loaded. The doors locked. The city burned. Martin Luther King was dead.

This was the last time we had to stand ready.

"Usually every woman who comes in cries."

Brian Lewinsky was anticipating a busy day at the "Blue Dress Museum".

"I think it's important, and so does my sister, that this story not be forgotten," said Lewinsky.

This morning, the Blue Dress Museum, or rather the mobile version of it, is in Livonia, Michigan.

"We want to be at the center of all the debates," said Lewinsky.

Lewinsky was referring to himself and the famous stained Blue Dress, which is in a special temperature controlled case.

"Have you seen the case for the Declaration of Independence, in DC?" asked Lewinsky. "Same company designed this case. It can withstand a 20 megaton nuclear blast, and is fire and waterproof."

The case was lighted, and it fully illuminated the blue dress worn by Monica Lewinsky that fateful day when President Clinton attended to his duties in the Oval Office.

"Did you want to see the DVD?"

Lewinsky pressed a button on the dashboard and the DVD began on a plasma screen. "We have a large one we mount on the side of the motor-coach too. It's a crowd grabber," said Lewinksy.

What does his sister, Monica Lewinsky, think?

Lewinsky was excited. "She loves the idea. You know, today is the 10th anniversary of Matt Drudge breaking the story." There were moans and screams and the sounds of a man calling out 'god, god'. Lewisnky smiled. "Don't worry. My sister reenacted her part in this, sounds and all. President Clinton declined to add his vocals, so we got Dana Carvey. Phil Hartman was the best at imitating President Clinton, but for some reason he, like Vince Foster, is dead."

Dana Carvey, the comedian, usually imitated George Herbert Walker Bush, but he agreed to attempt President Clinton.

"Carvey felt like it was his civic duty. And he got a little help from my sister," Lewinksy added slyly, and winked.

This last comment went untouched.

"Mrs. Clinton is expected to tour the exhibit," said Lewinsky. "Barrack Obama has. Mitt Romney too. So did Rudy. Rudy wanted to know where he could get a dress just like it. He thinks he might get more action from the Donald with blue." Lewinksy was referring to the now famous Youtube video showing Rudy Giuliani in a purple dress, obviously not his color.

Lewinksy unfolded a table top and produced a model of the Oval Office, complete with little figures.

"These are the Secret Service guys just outside the Oval Office Door," said Lewinsky. "When you hear the 'Oh god, Oh god', they tried to break the door down.

Did they think President Clinton was in danger?

"No," said Lewinksy. "They knew my sister."

Later in the day Lewinsky commented on Senator Clinton's quick tour of the exhibit.

"She cried," said Lewinsky. "But she did wait until the news cameras showed up."

Betty Jean Wynette, a Michigan voter, was waiting in the long line to see the Blue Dress. "She stood by her man," she said. "That's okay, sometimes. But sometimes it's better to kneel."

Flash-- The Hollywood writers are on strike!

Oh, no!

Maybe we need to call out the National Guard to keep law and order?

Or... maybe we need to call out the Right Writers to step in and really provide some crack writing and actually get a few laughs and a different view of the world.

The first things that are supposed to be effected are the late night shows, such as Leno and Letterman, and the soap operas.

Can you imagine?

Late Night Right with David Letterman....

Here's Dave: "Yeah, did you hear Hillary went out for Chinese last night and came back with Kung Pao Shrimp and a million dollars stuffed into fortune cookies? She was upset because they forgot to include her egg roll. She sent Bill back for them, and he managed another type of roll."

Drum snare!

Leno: "Yeah, yeah.... That Nancy Pelosi, she maybe 'America's Grandmother', but she knows nothing about Turkey and cooking. Look, she talks about how the Armenians were smoked by the Turks and suddenly those guys are eating the Kurds".

Coughs. Smirks.

Then the soap operas. The metro sexual guys suddenly decide that they want to do their part and join the Marines. The quasi-sluts decide that they want to support these new manly men. They organize fund raising for the troops and even enlist themselves.

The movies?

Imagine movies where the good guys win and the bad guys get blown away? How about scenes where the CEO of a company lies awake at night worried about the people working for him and his responsibility towards them?

How about a movie where the preacher or the priest or rabbi is not depicted as a smarmy money grubbing fake?

Or documentaries where the weather is examined for what it is, the cycle of the earth, instead of a devil of a thing needing to be conquered by the religion of Global Warming?

Imagine Right Writers who would write about rock stars that should just sing their songs and not preach complicated world events, being that most are high school drops outs.

And those same Right Writers commenting about the latest movie or television star to visit Hugo Chavez as being pretty stupid to be so ga ga over someone who would take their houses, cars and jewelry first chance they could.

Imagine some Right Writer penning a song, "Give War a Chance!"

It can only be hoped that the Writers strike continues for ever.

A letter the Warren Buffett, the Second Richest Man in America.

Dear Mr. Buffett,

I just read that you were complaining that you don't pay enough in taxes, and that you believe you should pay a higher percentage of your income to our favorite uncle, Uncle Sam.

Here is an open invitation to you.

Come to Cook County, Chicago. Our wonderful Blue City and County want to increase sales taxes, gas taxes and property taxes. They would love to have a few extra billionaires to contribute.

Your additional money will go to pay for city and county workers who have bent the handle on many shovels by leaning on them, or have done the smarter thing, and just not shown up at all for their jobs, except on payday.

Or your additional tax payments could go towards "vital" city and county services, such as keeping the ten trillion dollar new Stroger County Hospital fully staffed and servicing illegal aliens.

Or a few dollars to the government school system we have here. Maybe for Kevlar book covers for the students, and maybe for a boost in pay for the hard working administrators and teachers who can never be fired no matter how bad, not even while enjoying a nice summer off.

Mr. Buffett, the so-called "Sage of Omaha", explains that the tax system is tilted towards the rich at the expense of the middle class.

So our "Sage", who saw fit to make his statements overseas in a London newspaper, presumably wants "the rich" to drop a few more coins in Uncle Sam's trick or treat bag.

He is not alone. The Big Blues on the federal level want to help the rich drop off some more payday bars. Charlie Rangel, Democrat Congressman, New York, wants to impose a four percent surcharge of people earning more than $200,000 per year, over and above the nearly forty percent that they pay. His district is Harlem. My gazintas work that out to barely scraping by on that beautiful island of Manhattan. Hillary, our Blue Babe, will ramp up the torch song to impose more taxes on, well, anything that moves and stops, breathes or doesn't.

The great "Sage" then volunteers to the London paper that his tax prep consists of just following "what the US Congress tells me to do.".

Oh, my dear Sage, why not just sit down at your kitchen table and write a check to the US Treasury for a few extra billion dollars. Somewhere buried in the mile high tax instructions is the allowance that any citizen, sage or not, can send in more to Dear Uncle.

Then I would believe you are a sage. You wisely put your money where your overseas mouth has been spouting off.

Or you could find a modest mansion here in the Chicago area. There are a lot on the market. Then you could be turned upside down Chicago style and removed of every spare Lincoln or Franklin you might have.

So, Mr. Sage, here is come advice. To all others too out there that think that $200,000 per year is rich, or that they don't mind paying more in taxes: anybody can pay more.

Sit down. Write the check.

It's easy.

Except for billionaire sages.

Sincerely,

"Sageless in Chicago"

When it comes to peace there is no end to the talk about it.

And somebody even gets a prize for it. This year it went to the wrong person. I want to nominate Lt. Michael P. Murphy

Everybody wants peace, and rightly so.

War is what happens when politicians and rulers get a bug in their suits or up their galabea.

One guy who is responsible for blowing probably more people than any other one person felt so guilty in his role in helping to make wrecking the peace so bloody that he created a foundation to award a prize for it. Alfred Nobel created the Nobel Prizes and each year some person gets the Nobel Prize for Peace and for Science and for Literature and more. Alfred Noble created dynamite and made a fortune off of it.

So each year a bunch of sour pusses in Norway dole out an award and some cash.

This year's winner in the Peace Department was none other than Al Gore, former Vice President and founder of the Church of the Latter Day Environmentalists. He is the Pope of Green, and is not shy about speaking ex cathedra from the throne of St Rachel Carson (Silent Spring author). Like the Pope of Rome the Pope of Green lives in a castle in Tennessee and has his curia doing little green things, all with a huge carbon footprint.

Pope Gore's enemy is not the devil. No, Old Scratch is not the problem here. The problem is, well, us. And cows.

According to doctrine, people and cows are causing the earth to heat up. People drive those cars and fly on planes and want to heat their homes. Cows fart. Both are giving the world a case of the hots, according the Pope Gore. He even made a movie about it with "truth" in the title, though truth and facts were hard to find in the flick. His ideal solution is to rid the earth of both the people and the cows. It's a bit radical to say he wants to get rid of the people, but he has no problem with urging the permanent beano solution for cows.

So all his preaching and his exhorting, in between flying around in private jets and sucking half the power out of the TVA, has earned the Pope of Green the Nobel Prize for Peace, which he shares with the dashing Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, a United Nations network of scientists and little Cardinal Greenies.

Which brings me to Lt. Michael P. Murphy.

On October 22, President Bush will award this Navy Seal the Medal of Honor. Posthumously.

Lt. Michael P. Murphy, of Patchogue on Long Island, gave his life so others could live. In June 2005 Murphy led a four man reconnaissance mission deep in enemy territory in Afghanistan looking for a key Taliban leader. He was wounded and crawled into the open line of fire to radio for help for him and his men. He continued to fight. One of the four brave SEALs was saved.

On route, to rescue the SEALs, a US helicopter was shot down. Sixteen SEALs and Army special operations troops were killed in the crash.

There is no question that Lt. Murphy should get the Nobel Peace Prize. He talked the talk. Put his life on the line for "peace".

Al Gore, on the other hand, does not deserve a medal for honor, or a prize for honor, because his cause is one that has no honor.

People and cow emissions are not the cause of a warmer earth, if it is even warmer. There are cycles to everything, and this is probably just part of a cycle. No beano for cows is going to stop us from sweating a bit more.

There is no honor to Al Gore. Pope Green. He is not keeping the peace. A young soldier in Afghanistan has done more for peace than Gore ever will.

There is an article in Discover Magazine about the idea that aliens are living amongst us. I don't mean as in humans that may get here in the back of a semi from our southern border or from those who may land and clear immigration and customs at our airports, but as in creatures from out there.

Now these aliens don't take the form of little green men, or ET, or even Mork from Mork and Mindy.

These aliens may be little tiny life forms with just RNA. They may be at the bottom of the sea, in a crevice in the desert, or maybe living in an unrecognized form in our refrigerator.

They are there, waiting, one supposes, for the opportunity to spring on all us DNA creatures and take over.

I guess they are patient.

But think about it. Suppose the right opportunity comes along and they strike. Life is fragile. Human life is the most fragile.

Plants and animals at least can exist in their daily lives and to what comes naturally to them. They don't have to deal with matters that concern humans. Matters of friendship and trust and love and hurt. Oh, sure, the higher mammals do have some degree of feeling, but let's face it: if Bonzo the Gorilla is tossed over for King Kong, he just shrugs his ape shoulders and grabs the next best looking girly primate he can.

Or he grabs himself, and is happy.

No harm, no foul.

I think this may be the big threat. While we are looking for Osama, the human race will be done in by simple RNA creatures who learn that DNA based humans are all too prone to break down on feelings.

So if Discover Magazine is right, and if they are lurking in our crispers, we are sitting ducks, because humans are so weak.

While the news has been filled with the story of the Muslim extremists planning to attack and blow up the fuel pipeline to JFK airport, another plot by religious extremists went unnoticed.

Perhaps because it happened in Fly Over Land

It has to do with a clash of civilizations and cultures.

In many sections of this country there are sects of religions that live apart from the rest of the population. The Midwest seems to be home to many of these sects.

One of these groups has been pushed to the limit, and they have begun striking back. In all their years they really have not assimilated in this country, much like many Muslim communities.

First a little about this group: They shun modern conveniences. They don't use electricity, have no television or radio, and they do not drive automobiles. They have suffered abuse at the hands of local yahoos, despite the fact that they pretty much mind their own business. It's their dress and the fact that they are devoted to their God, and worship this god in their daily lives. The women dress in long dresses and are covered head to toe, and the men wear hats and beards.

But enough is enough!

The Ft. Wayne, Indiana, office of the FBI uncovered a terrorist plot that would have brought Detroit to ruin.

A local group of these Amish --yes, Amish-- had planned an attack against the River Rouge plant of Ford Motors. Mainly the problem was with the troubles caused by the automobile versus the buggy and the decadence of western society.

It was to involve fertilizer and a certain amount of horse and buggies.

It was a good plot, the Special Agent from the FBI said, as nobody would have suspected them. The extremists had been saving cow feces and storing them in large steel buggies, venting the resulting methane.  These "Buggy Bombs" could have leveled the entire plant.

The local papers reported some reactions, saying that there are all types of religious terrorist groups, not just Muslim's, and that people should be vigilant in their daily lives in looking for terrorists plots.

I did a search to see if there had been any Amish leaders denouncing and protesting the actions of these extremists, and I saw none.

A little later I looked for Muslim groups denouncing and protesting the plotters who, in the name of Allah, wanted to kill thousands. I found none.

Isn't this strange?

Copyright 2007.  All Rights Reserved.

Most people have some type of skill.

Some are great mechanics, some are scholars, and some have a great understanding of human beings that take them into the areas of psychology and mental health.

What I've been wondering lately is, I'm wondering if some have the skill of attraction and marriage.

Note, I said attraction AND marriage. A skill set if you will.

Having kicked around in this pathetic world of singles now for two and one half years, I have noticed that there seems to be a group of men and women who are in their late thirties and forties who have not been married. They claim they want to be, they are on the look out for love, but as the clock is a ticking they are not in any race. Most of these folks are unattached completely. Many are not in the online world of dating. They do their hunting and preening amongst friends, at work, at church and at other social gatherings.

They go to work, men and women, pay their bills, talk with the neighbor, and then they close the door at night, and they are all alone.

I fit in the file of never married, but it was never by choice or desire.

Now it's true, some do not want to be married, or even want to have a long-term relationship, but many do, and it just never seems to happen. After awhile I think many just give up on the idea and squirrel themselves away in a comfortable cocoon of internet relations or movies or favorite TV shows.

Is it that these people don't have the marrying skill?

I ask this, because I can site many instances where I know women (and some men) who are walking down that aisle with a guy or gal who has been to the alter once, twice and maybe three times.

They themselves may or may not have been married several times, usually not though. Maybe once. Occassionally never.

At any rate, I got to wondering about this, because of my situation with my ex, Kim.

She is hooking up with a guy who has been married three times.

I tried and tried to get to the alter with her, and it never worked. I really don't belong in the "don't want to" category, but I obviously lack something, the marrying skill, I guess.

It just seems odd, that there is a growing pool of never married, and they can't get together with each other, but you will hear about one or more in the group falling impossibly for someone who has walked the walk two or three times.

They have marrying skill set. It keeps them walking and walking down that aisle.

Sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of Hillary's Great Trip.

Every politician conducts focus groups. Hillary -- and Bill before her- were famous for them. Bill and Hill even asked a focus group where they should go on vacation.

Remember that pre-Monica video of the two love vultures dancing with the star fish on the beach? Yep, that faux romantic adventure, was the result of the survey from a focus group.

It's time you knew the real story.

Hillary and Bill were told to go see the Castaways: the Skipper, First Mate Gilligan, the Howles, Ginger and the rest --er, I mean -- the Professor and Maryanne.

A lot of people and animals had found their way to Gilligan's island, including the president of a revolution torn country, President Rodriguez, a Japanese sailor left over from World War II, a famous painter, Dubov, who renounced civilization, a ghost, a witch doctor, Lord Beasley, the famous butterfly collector and even an Ape man, Tongo. So why not Hillary and Bill?


They set out on Air Force One. Remember, THEY were president at the time.

It was MaryAnne who first spotted Hillary and Bill. Air Force One had been outfitted with pontoons and it glided up into the lagoon next to the SS Minnow, the castaway's boat with the couch sized hole in it.

The secret service guys in dark suits rowed a rubber dingy ashore. Bill could hardly restrain himself. In fact, he ended up leaping into the lagoon and free styling it to shore.

"Hey, little lady," he said, panting. "Want to kiss it? Do you know who I am?"

MaryAnne, cute as ever, put her finger on her chin. "Are you Jethro Bodine?"

"Why, hell no!" said Bill. "I done finished sixth grade. I'm a bona fide, honest to god, Rhodes Scholar, though there is the little matter of not finishing up at Oxford. But, hey, you got any nice little resort places here with hammocks swinging from the trees? Any cigar stores? Want to join me later for a little swinging?"

"Is that why you're panting, Jethro? You know, my name is not Paula."

"I am ---" Bill started to say, but was interrupted by a much deeper and authoritarian voice. MaryAnne thought it was the hunky secret service agent.

"I am the President of the United States!" It was Hillary. She had waddled ashore, petal pushers pulled up over the knees.

MaryAnne jumped back in fear. So many creatures had wandered ashore out of that lagoon, that she wasn't sure what she was seeing. And Hillary's mascara was running in the tropical heat, and there was not a thing you could do with the hair.

"Don't worry," Bill said. "She's human. Well, sort of."

When Maryanne recovered, she suggested that President Hillary meet the president of Gilligan's island, Gilligan. They had just had elections, and Gilligan had just barely won in a run off against another visitor to the island, a big man selling books and movies about saving the island from an ice age, Al Gore. He had recently left, on a Mega Yacht.

"Are you the Little Buddy?"

A skinny Gilligan took off his hat and shook hands with Hillary.

Bill was winking at MaryAnne.

"Tell you what Gilligan, as I am President of the United States, how about letting me run this place for awhile?"

To Gilligan it sounded like a good idea. He was not so good with schmoozing and the usual political lies, so he agreed. Besides, he had to cook up the meals for the official state dinners, and the clean up was a pain.

"It's all yours," said Gilligan.

"Good." She smiled at Bill, who had just met Ginger. He was all over her in her leopard dress. The big secret service agent dragged him back by the ear. "Okay, I have some changes to make here, starting now!"

Before Hillary could issue any proclamations and order the Castaways around, Ginger slinked up to her. "I'm from Hollywood, and I'm here to help you," she said. "Everybody here is so stupid. Especially MaryAnne in those daisy dukes."

Hillary was soon running the island. MaryAnne was ordered to stop wearing the short shorts and was fitted into a burqa. Next she met with the Howell's. Lovey had to dig into her jewelry box and distribute all the broaches, diamond necklaces and rings to each island inhabitant. The Professor looked at his new ruby lizard pin and wondered what he was going to do with it. He couldn't eat it, and there were no pawn shops on the island yet. Thurton Howell III had to take his suitcase of money and give it out equally to the rest (and I mean THE rest, not just the Professor and Maryanne, like in early version of the theme song). Gilligan used his Franklins for wallpaper in his hut; the Skipper for insole cushioning.

Next Hillary decided the island needed health care, and she was going to do it. She was going to call it Hillary Care, but Bill convinced her to call it Ginger Care, in appreciation of all the help from the actress. Bill grinned slyly and winked at Ginger. He was the Winker in Chief, and his little buddy was the Wanker in Chief. Eventually the coconuts that the Castaways brought in for payment weren't enough to keep the system afloat, so Hillary asked that each do a spin a the brand new tiki hut hospital. After a few botched operations performed by the Skipper, the Castaways found a way off the island for their serious medical care.

The Skipper, a former World War II veteran, suggested that the island better have a strong defense, and that the Minnow could be outfitted with 50 mm gun stock. Hillary said that there was no money for defense and a military, and that the Castaways could not win a war anyway.

The Professor was sent DVDs for Diversity Training. He had the problem of being the head of the island's univerity, Bill U. But he was a Euro Male. And considering he was the only faculty and only student, he didn't meet the new diversity goals set up by the Hillary administration. He got the DVDs, but it was well before the DVD player was invented, so he used them for coasters.

One night MaryAnne crept into Gilligan's hut. It's not what you think, though I am sure he got some as First Mate and then as President of Gilligan's Island.

"We've got to throw them off the island, Mr. President," said MaryAnne. "She is killing us. And this burqa itches."

Gilligan was stumped. This was way before Fox Television's "24", so he couldn't call Jack Bauer for help.

So began "Operation Cast Off".

You would think it was the Professor's idea, as he was the smartest on the island, but it was actually Maryanne's. She was the love interest of most young boys at the time, so she gets to be the heroine of this story.

She had the Professor build a cell phone out of a split coconut and bones from a grouper, and he contacted a friend at a University, who had sway at the Intern Office at the White House.

Mr. Howell and Lovey agreed to fund a scholarship for a girl named Monica, and set her up for life even, so anxious were they to get rid of Interim President Hillary.

"Done deal," MaryAnne announced.

"Yeah," but they're still here," the Skipper complained. "And she is in my hut and Bill took over Gilligan's." The Skipper's hut had been plastered over to resemble the White House, only a lot bigger than real life. Gilligan's hut now had a blinking sign saying that four hour naps were free for hotties.

"Wait," MaryAnne said.

In one of the Gilligan Island episodes Gilligan reels in a briefcase filled with government secrets. Inside that briefcase was the missing FBI files, and a perfumed letter from Monica.

MaryAnne took this to Fed-Ex and sent it to Republican National Committee.

Once Hillary got wind of this, and Bill sniffed the perfume, it was time to get back to the fort.

Before they left, a film crew was swept up on shore. They had been filming a remake of Moby Dick, this time with a Great Black Whale instead of a Great White one. Ginger hooked them into filming Hillary and Bill dancing.

Every time Bill swung his back to the camera he was panting for Maryanne, but she left him to Ginger. She was from Kansas, after all.

A week later the whole mess exploded in DC: Monica, cigars, you know.

But the real story is how Hillary tried out being the real president of someplace.

Later, in year 2009, when the Castaways found out that Hillary was really the President of the United States and not just telling lies as usual, they refused rescue.

Of all the islands in all the world Hillary had gone to theirs. Hell, it had been over forty years marooned there. It was home. They could do what they wanted. Less government the better.

One afternoon Gilligan and the Skipper mined the lagoon to prevent any other politicians from landing.

Two interesting things happened this week so far. The first is the especially droll and dog-faced Don Imus, shock-less jock, has gotten his ten gallon hat spun around by insulting some black girls.

He's going to pay the price. MSNBC has axed the simulcast of his boring radio show, and now CBS may kick him off the airways too.

Oh, well. No loss for humanity.

The other thing is that Kurt Vonnegut died. He was kind of a second rate author who had some funny and some profound things to say.

Most will focus on his "Slaughter House Five" novel, about the horrific fire bombing of Dresden, of which Vonnegut was a survivor, along with a number of other US soldiers. They survived by taking shelter from the fire storm in the meat locker (number 5) of a slaughterhouse.

Virtually nobody will mention his one monumental and groundbreaking and futuristic story, which was published in 1961. Nobody will mention it because it rips at liberal sensibilities, and Kurt Vonnegut was a card carrying member of this group of world wide ideologues.

Nobody but nobody but me will mention his story, "Harrison Bergeron" in the same breath as Don Imus. But they are related. Cousin stories at least.

Vonnegut's story begins, "The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal". It goes on to describe the crazy US Handicapper General, Diana Moon Glampers, who takes a shotgun and other measures to the best and the brightest and most beautiful in society to make sure that they have no advantage over the next person in line.

Harrison Bergeron was an exceptionally bright and attractive human specimen, who, because of this advantage, had to be shouldered with three hundred pounds of weights, wear coke bottle glasses...well, you get the idea. All to make him like the next.

When I first read this story I thought that it was an amusing dark comedy. That was better than twenty years ago. No matter what you think of Vonnegut, you have to admit he was wrong. He set the story too far in the future. Year 2001 is more realistic.

Don Imus is the latest public figure to pay for his stupidity and ignorance by being sacrificed on the alter of political correctness and hate speech

This is a natural outgrowth of Diana Moon Glamper's activity. Yes, Imus may be a racist, but the reaction to what he has said has thrown up a mirror to a society that will tolerate this type of speech from some and not from others. All to make things equal.

If things were really "equal" with out handicap, Jesse Jackson, who hardly apologized enough for calling New York "hymie town" and Al Sharpton, who was complaining about his election returns being "jewed" down, would be tossed off of their respective radio shows. In fact, because these comments happened before their shows launched, the same PC Mavens, the same junior Diana Moon Glampers, would not have let those two pollute the public airwaves.

But they do. And they posture and pretend.

I for one think all three should be on the air, if they can keep an audience. All three of those racists will blather themselves down to the lowest common hateful denominator, and then hopefully fade away.

But the enforcement of the "handicap" leads to the weight being borne more by some and less by others. Ultimately this ugly weight is borne by all of us, Americans all.

Where will this lead?

Not to equality but to more hate.

And Diana Moon Glamper will be smiling.

Copyright 2007.  All Rights Reserved

To: Al "I really did win" Gore
The Big Mansion in Tennessee which burns six times the energy of the average house,
Gore Mountain, TN 00000-0000


Dear Nearly President Gore:

I am writing to you because you invented this internet that I am on, and if you can do that you must be a very wise and powerful man, even though you have named your wife Tipper, which kind of reminds me of the garbage truck that tips the plastic containers into it.

As you can see from the picture I took just a few minutes ago out my front window, we are not getting any of the global warming you keep promising. And I want to know who you can talk to about this. There is snow everywhere.

I know you and Hillary Clinton don't always get along, but it looks like she might be the next president of the United States, which you are nearly one. Anyway, she will be in charge of all our lives, from cradle to grave, and I know that she will turn to you to take care of getting some more global warming going.

Between the two of you, and that Speaker of the House with the babushka, Nancy, this should be a slam dunk.

We all know that it is a RWC (Right Wing Conspiracy) to keep global warming from happening, so you kind of look bad. Worse than you looked when you had an army of lawyers pouncing on the voting Chads in Florida in year 2000.

We all know this is wrong, and that the members of the vast RWC would rot in hell, if you believed in it. Since you don't, I think they might just freeze to death.

So I am asking you to maybe team up with Hugo Chavez and Mr. President of Iran who wants the Atom bomb and deliver some of this global warming.

Right now my chives in my pots outside the garage are bent over and frozen, and the little helicopter seeds on my maple tress don't look like they will ever fly into my hated neighbor's gutters to clog them.

All because this global warming never, ever gets here.

Would you believe I thought I saw a wooly Mammoth down the block?

It turned out it was just Barack Obama who had huddled a bunch of people under a big furry coat. I didn't see you or Hillary in it though. Please don't take that as an insult to Mammoths in any way. I don't want to end up like that Don Imus guy and be banned from Townhall for two weeks.

Anyway, it looks like I'm going to have to pack it up and go way south to visit your friend Hugo in Venezuela, where he has managed to get the global warming going.

Anyway, please send some heat, more than from just your open mouth, and thank you so much again for inventing the internet and the email I guess then too.

Stay Warm.

Your friend,

Chad.

Part of my job involves sizing up brides-to-be and deciding who might want to go to Barbados. Not with me, though, and that is most likely a good thing. I don't think there would be a honeymoon stage with most of them.

It would go right to divorce.

While I'm doing this sizing-up I am working a booth at a bridal show. You have probably seen the signs around your town: BIG HUGE BRIDAL SHOW, 10000 VENDORS, WIN A TRIP TO PARADISE."

If you have never attended one of these you have huckesterism to an extreme, and it is aimed at supposedly one of the foundations of western society, the institution of marriage. You have the video service, the DJ service, the florists, the insurance companies, and, yes, the travel agents and their suppliers (me) pushing their wares like cheap whores at the future Mrs. Consumer.

The bride-to-be takes a little card around and gets it initialed so she is eligable to win prizes supplied by the whores.

The bridal and honeymoon industry is fueled by billions, so for many you have the cost of the wedding and honeymoon being bloated to nearly the size of the national debt. Toss in a house and furnishings, and no wonder half of all marriages end in divorce, money problems being a chief reason for splitting.

Is this glitz parade a serious way to start a life together. Would our parents and their parents done such foolishness?

Yesterday the Chicago Bears played Detroit and kicked butt. Not that I care all that much, but the few guys that were dragged to the Bridal extravaganza were walking around like wounded puppies. I felt sorry for them and was handing out pants for them to wear, as obviously they had surrendered theirs long ago.

Maybe the bridal huckster industry is not so bad for me. Society maybe. But for me, when the brides-to-be are on their second or third time around the marriage game they may want to try a more sophisticated desto like Barbados, instead of swilling margaritas or beer in Cancun.

Me? I didn't choose any of the hundreds of brides attending. Why hook up with anyone who would hock my pants for a fragile piece of china or a balding DJ?

Copyright 2007.  All Rights Reserved.