Last Wednesday, I got a text from an ex-girlfriend that said, in part, “If you plan to write anymore blog posts about the state of everything, I’d love to read them.”
Ok, Bird. This comes under the heading of, ‘be careful what you wish for’, but here you go.
I noticed that I didn’t get an invitation to your wedding last September. After I began to suspect that no invitation would be forthcoming, I started memorizing the lyrics to, “Friends in Low Places.” That would be a song that is now considered classic country. It’s a party song that involves lost love, copious drinking, and a hint of the class struggle. Ya know…real country, rather than the frat boy variety that is popular today. Hell, I even memorized the infamous third verse.
Anyway, I memorized the lyrics (I used to know them by heart, but as Joe Biden has discovered, age is a real bitch), and I was about to consult one of my Denver spies to discover the location of your reception so I could crash the proceedings, when something pretty bad happened that ruined my plans. So, on the day of your first wedding, and your husband’s second, I was at a funeral. As it turned out, I couldn’t have come anyway.
I know there’s all kinds of irony and symbolism in weddings versus funerals that I could unpack, but it’s just too exhausting. Everything this year, from external politics to workplace drama to the freakin’ weather feels exhausting.
But I have to admit that I’m really enjoying the drama playing out in the Democrat Party right now. God knows that I despise Donald Trump, but the sanctimonious preening by the Dems and their media allies has become very tiresome over the past decade. It’s nice to know that, when the stakes are high enough, the left are just the same pigs are the rest of us, wallowing in the same trough of sunbaked shit.
If you want to study the complete implosion of a political campaign in the face of a major gas lighting operation designed to make America think that a weak and feeble old man is still on the ball, this is it. Joe Biden may have COVID, or he may not. In the end, it doesn’t even matter. There’s a little Lincoln Park reference for your new hubby there, Bird. Rock should be rock. Country should be country.
Anyway, Biden is done. No matter what he does now, he will not win a second term as president. I write this during the weekend when rumors abound that Biden may drop out. But then what? If Kamala Harris becomes the nominee, she simply won’t win. The lefties can shriek about racism, sexism, nativism or whatever, but Kamala has done absolutely nothing to convince the country that she would make a decent president.
So then what? Will the Dems hold an open convention? How’s that gonna work out? It will make for one hell of a drama, but my guess is that it will merely show the country that the Dems are in total chaos and desperate to save the country from Trump. Desperation does not connote strength. Desperation denotes desperation. Ain’t that right, Monster? When November 5 rolls around, I suspect that people will go with the devil they know, rather than the devil they don’t.
As for Trump, any of you who thought that the would-be assassin’s bullet would fundamentally change Trump’s personality got a stark reminder of who he really is last Thursday night. He’s the same narcissistic psycho we’ve known all along, but now he’s got a purple heart.
Remember when Tony Soprano got shot by Uncle Junior and he was trapped in a weird dreamscape for two episodes before he woke up? For about five minutes, Tony was a soft and cuddly teddy bear before he reverted back to the evil so’n bitch he always was. In fact, he was worse. Just ask Christopha. Well, that’s Trump.
When he wins in November, the Dems have only themselves to blame. If they and their media allies had only bothered to take heed of the images that us conservatives have been warning about regarding Biden’s infirmities for two years now, the Dems might be in a stronger position. But alas…this is where we are.
By the way, I’m not a bit surprised that the head of the Secret Service isn’t resigning. No one is held accountable anymore. Just like the NFB, Biden is standing by his incompetent leadership, no matter how corrupt or guilty they look.
Speaking of the NFB, have any of you bothered to read Resolution 2024-18, which was just passed at their national convention? It urges the Perkins School for the Blind in Massachusetts to change its name because T. H. Perkins was a known slave trader and opium smuggler. This ancestral sin does, among other things, cause intergenerational trauma for people of all colors, particularly African-Americans and Chinese people. Did any of you know that T. H. Perkins owned slaves and smuggled dope? I sure didn’t. When I think of Perkins, I think of a school for the blind. Then, I think of a piece of peanut butter cup pie. How many blind people of color knew of Mr. Perkins’ unfortunate history before they were traumatized by some academic somewhere?
Well, The resolution passed with much controversy. The NFB continues its leftward drift. Too bad all of you good and loyal NFB folks who voted against it now have to support it. Remember the NFB Pledge that you’re supposed to recite at the beginning of each meeting? You must now support the programs and policies of the Federation. Resolution 2024-18 is now policy. Have fun.
The resolution was authored by Justin Salisbury. Anyone who reads Justin’s articles in the Braille Monitor will not be a bit surprised that this policy came from the mind of Mr. Salisbury. His language is rife with the phraseology and expressionism common, not only amongst the leftist social justice crowd, but in the heights of academia itself. This would be the same uncorked academia that we saw in action this past Spring on college campuses across the country as the pro-Hamas demonstrations went apeshit.
Salisbury identifies himself as a person of mixed race. In the articles I’ve located, I haven’t found out what those races are. He does indicate that he is viewed as a white person by society.
With all that in mind, I find it very telling that this resolution was not brought to the floor by a person who identifies as African-American with slave blood, or by a Chinese-American, or by a person who has been affected by the opium trade. At least, I don’t think Justin is an opium addict, but I guess I shouldn’t assume. Still, if the resolution had been written by someone like Anil Lewis, Dishon Spears, or Ever Lee Hairston, I could take it at face value and engage with the substance of it on its own terms. But that wasn’t the case here.
I’m going to make an educated guess that this resolution was written as a solution looking for a problem; which is perfectly in character for the progressive left. The action points even include those wonderful words in their predictable order; diversity, equity and inclusion. DEI, the academic concept that has grown into an industry that has been losing a good deal of ground of late, is alive and well within the NFB.
As I get older, I become more sensitive to people of privilege claiming to speak for those whom they deem to be oppressed. You see it all over the place in the blindness community. Organizations who claim to represent the best interests of the blind often employ sighted people in the top ranks. These sighted people are often invited to public functions in order that they may speak on behalf of the blind, rather than inviting the blind themselves to speak. These sighted folks suddenly become, blind whisperers, if you will. Suddenly, you have directors, presidents and people in power saying, “Wow! Isn’t Lisa Kelly just amazing? She does so much for…that population.”
I can’t believe I’m about to paraphrase Taylor Swift, but when it comes to the left, I’ve found that their covert narcissism might disguise as altruism, like some kind of Congressman. If Trump is an overt narcissist, Robin DiAngelo and her ilk are covert narcissists. I strongly suspect that Mr. Salisbury is cut from the same cloth. In fact, I think a lot of covert narcissists reared their ugly heads during the Marching Together movement in 2021. They were screaming about justice, but in actuality, it was all about them. How many of these shitbirds re-victimized people who had already been hurt?
This is what the NFB is supposed to stand against. They are not people speaking for the blind. They are supposed to be the blind, speaking for themselves. Why should it be any different for African-Americans, Chinese-Americans, or any other so-called oppressed minority? “White fragility,” my fat, Polish ass.
Sidebar: I appreciate that Taylor Swift had the grace to leave country music and admit that she wanted to do pop. Meanwhile, Garth Brooks can’t be bothered to post his catalog on Spotify, Apple Music or YouTube. On one hand, we can’t enjoy the beauty of No Fences. On the other, we don’t have to be reminded of Chris Gaines. That’s life for ya.
I’m now having a fantasy about going to the next Nebraska state board meeting and demanding that the president, who also happens to be one of my ex-girlfriends, defend Resolution 2024-18. I have a sneaking suspicion that she, along with the Nebraska delegation, voted against it on the floor. But, it’s Federation law now. Suckers!
This is what the progressive left does. They specialize in institutional capture by controlling the language first with an eye toward impacting and ultimately controlling policy. Today, it’s your pronouns in your Email signature. Tomorrow, it’s a new DEI compliance officer. Next week, it’s a mandatory struggle session on race, homophobia or the tyranny of Israel.
This is why I think Trump 47 is nigh.
By the way, circling back to my point about the Secret Service, none of the NFB leaders who oversaw the centers where sexual misconduct have resigned or have been fired. Can we really get mad about Kim Cheatle, when Julie Deden still has a job? Can we really shake our fists about a man who lived hundreds of years ago, when many who looked the other way and enabled sexual predators to flourish within the ranks of the Federation still hold power?
You know, it just occurred to me that this blog entry is about break-ups. The Bird and I broke up in July of 2013. The Republican Party and I broke up in December of 2017. The NFB and I broke up in December of 2021. In all three cases, the break-ups were necessary and they hurt a lot. In the cases of the NFB and the GOP, all I feel is sorrow, anger and regret. I do smile sometimes, however, when I think of The Bird. I guess nature can be healing.
So, here’s to you, Bird, and your new husband. I hope he reads you like braille, especially in that big, beautiful Asian birdbath of yours. I do appreciate that you take the time to read my stuff. At least…up to now.
Since you were kind enough to ask, I’m doing fine here in The Big O. I’m just three drinks behind with George Strait. The dude is 72 years old, he just broke a concert record and he’s about to put out a new album in September. How do you think Morgan Wallen will be doing at 72? I bet he won’t even make 50.
Did you guys find this entry a bit dramatic, traumatic, or just plain spastic. Maybe, it felt like plastic, or drastic, or even bombastic. Probably not fantastic. I should not be left to my own devices, they come with prices and vices, I end up in crisis. That’s what happens when I write about my past flames. Cuz all my old flames have new names, which was a country song by Mark Chesnutt back in 1992.
Speaking of ex-girlfriends, I can’t wait for Alicia to come on my Facebook page and defend Resolution 2024-18. Leash, now that you’re an active NFB member again, it shouldn’t be a problem for you. Thanks for inviting me to both of your weddings.
In reading back over this entry, it strikes me as pretty grab bag. I hope none of you found it jarring, or sparring, or even scarring. I used to enjoy grabbing Marty. I never thought of her as my bag, though. She was just Marty, my sensuous woman. Another song by Mark Chesnutt there.
How the hell am I gonna shoehorn Katy into this blog? She doesn’t care about politics. She doesn’t care about the NFB. She doesn’t care about country music. I can’t contort the theme to fit with Harry Potter, cats or dogs. This is a real problem.
I just realized that all of my most meaningful relationships came after the year 2000. My college years were kind of stupid, but all of the best women came after I was 25. The double entendre was intentional, by the way. At least, I hope it was. Maybe they all faked it.
O…kay. I’m editing this entry and the news just dropped that Biden has withdrawn from the race. He has officially been defenestrated. I guess Slick Willie and Barry O. have still got it. Nothing I wrote previously is invalid. The Dems will ultimately have no choice but to run with Kamala. If they don’t nominate her, many people of Indian and Jamaican descent will experience intergenerational trauma. Yes, the Dems have set themselves a neat little trap, and the only way for them to escape it is to chew their own leg off. Meanwhile, get ready for the biggest media-driven rehab campaign in history, transforming Kamala from Poison Ivy to Batgirl.
Did any of my exes like Batman? I’m pretty sure not.
Whoa! Now it looks like Joe Manchin is going to re-register as a Democrat so he can run against Kamala. Ok…I need to quit writing before this blog entry turns into a Trump speech that keeps going…and going…and going…
You still reading, Bird? Remember that Columbo episode where Johnny Cash was the murderer? You made cinnamon chicken and we watched it on your couch. I’m gonna publish this ridiculous piece and go watch it again with Kylie. She likes Columbo because he’s good at the cat and mouse game.
Must. Quit. Writing.
God bless this cuckoo country!
And speaking of cuckoo, yes, Monster, I’m still taking my meds.
