Racial cleansing

TENDER SENSIBILITIES in some precincts are suffering the vapors because of a detergent commercial in China.

But there is another version in Italy — seems to be a different detergent — which is not causing the vapors.

That is because the Italian version portrays blacks as the ideal while the Chinese version portrays Orientals as ideal.

The criticism of the Chinese ad comes from Western PC leftists — no surprise. I doubt the Chinese care a whit about the delicate sensibilities of Western PC leftists.

Most people around the world view the race issue as they’ve always viewed it, and that is that people are different, and the way you look is, of course, superior.

And it’s quite normal to look down your nose at different races. The Japanese are particularly talented at this.

They have a history of not just looking down their noses but murdering and torturing gleefully, which is woefully often the result of multiculturalism and diversity.

Western PC leftists ignore this grim detail.

MeminWhile Latin America can be leftist, it’s not PC.* An example is the cartoon character Memín Pinguín, a black boy beloved by Mexicans.

About a decade ago, Mexico issued a postal stamp featuring Memín, and a vapor cloud rose above the United States as PC leftists fainted dead away in colossal swoons.

Mexico ignored it, and the stamp ran its course. I kept intending to buy a sheet but never got around to it. Dang!

The Chinese ignore PC leftists, and so should you.

Milo Yiannopoulous, Breitbart tech editor, “flaming faggot,” and bane of university leftist PC fanatics everywhere, argues that the PC terror is on the verge of collapse.

The astounding rise of Donald Trump is also a reaction to PC terrorists and limp-wristed politicos like Weepy Barry Obama who apologized to the Japanese recently for Harry Truman’s brave, abrupt and justified end to World War II.

Barry is an endless embarrassment.

Now, if you’re unhappy with the color of your spouse or lover, wash him or her in that Chinese detergent.

Or just add bleach … or soot.

Your choice, amigos.

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* This proves that you can be a knucklehead socialist without being a knucklehead PC fanatic. By the way, Memín Pinguín has his own Facebook page! Be a fan. I am.

Bernie’s bunny hole

bernieLOTS OF AMERICANS are scurrying down the Bernie Hole. That would be Bernie Sanders, the socialist candidate who’s running for president as a faux Democrat.

hillBut before we start chuckling at Bernie, let’s get some laughs from the entire Democrat end of the Great Divide.

On that side, we find just two candidates: The humorless, charm-challenged, battle ax and future felon Hillary Clinton and the quasi-Democrat but admitted socialist called ole Bernie.

joeLurking in the wings is the aging, foot-in-mouth, groping, leering Joe Biden, an old pol who cannot keep his hands off good-looking women within grab-ass distance. That is what the Democrats offer voters, a geriatric trio of whiteys.

The party of inclusion and diversity. Oh, the irony!

Are you laughing yet? Can you believe this?

Are we in Alice’s Wonderland?

On the Republican side, we have black, white, Latino, Asian, women, men, an incredibly diverse, talented lineup. The multiculture-obsessed Democrats have three old honkys, and the allegedly racist Republicans reflect a veritable mosaic of color, culture and idiom.

Oh, the irony, again! Let us hold hands and hum Kumbaya.

Why, even Jeb Bush speaks fluent Spanish. Neither Hillary nor Bernie nor Joe speak anything but English. They are language-deficient.

Let’s look at Bernie now.

He’s a socialist, which means he likes Big Government, Heavy Regulation, Welfare, and High Taxes. Just like Barry, but more.

Think Greece. And cringe.

Looking at Bernie’s campaign website, a number of things leap out at me, issues that reflect the dreamy-eyed Utopianism that runs rampant through the leftist way of thinking — if you can call it thinking.

  1. Income equality. There are too many rich people and too many poor people. So rob from the successful and gift to the unsuccessful.
  2. Getting “Big Money” out of politics. Dream on, Bernie.
  3. Racial justice. Blacks are oppressed and cops are bad. Arrant nonsense.
  4. Fighting for women’s rights. What are the rights women lack?
  5. Caring for Veterans. Seven years into a Democrat administration, why hasn’t that happened already, Bernie?
  6. Support the Iran Deal. Yes, Bernie trusts Iran! Good Lord. He has faith in the “Death to America!” Ayatollahs.

There are more, but I know you’re laughing so hard right now that it’s difficult to focus your eyes. Grab a Kleenex.

Thankfully, ole Bernie will not be president, but it’s sad that so many people subscribe to his cockeyed nuttiness. He’s a leftover radical relic from the flower-power 1960s, hardly a sane fit for the 21st century.

Where are the Franklin D. Roosevelts and Harry Trumans? Now those were good Democrats, people worth voting for.

Seven decades down

family
Then

AT 4:23 AM, 70 years ago today, a scrawny, unhealthy baby was born at the Emily Winship Woodruff Maternity Center at Crawford W. Long Memorial Hospital in Atlanta, Georgia.

T’was I.

It was eight months before V-E Day, nearly a year before President Truman dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima, and 21 days after famous firefighter Smokey the Bear appeared on the scene.

My mother was weary because I was a long time coming down the birth canal. Was my father there? I don’t know. He might have been in a bar.

I had an affliction. An intestinal valve did not work right, and I could not digest food properly. The prognosis was grim. I hung on, skinny and wan, for a couple of months until an experimental drug was first tried on me — and it worked. I’ve been digesting well ever since.

It’s strange to be this old because I feel good. I have no major health issues, and I’ve never had any. Knock on wood. My last hospitalization, for nothing serious, was over 50 years ago when I was 19. I’ve never broken even one bone. The only obvious signs of this passage of time is that my hair is white, and my energy level is not what it was 30 years ago. You do feel that.

Alexander the Great, Lord Byron, Adolf Hitler, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Ernest Hemingway, Nathan Bedford Forrest, Marilyn Monroe, Jimi Hendrix and Jesus Christ all lived fewer years. There is some debate about the last one.

There is one quite noticeable aspect to being 70: You know it’s the end game. Oh, it might come 20 years down the road, like it did for my mother, or just five years more, like it did for my father. It could come tomorrow, and nobody would be surprised. No one would say: So young. What a shame.  Young has vanished.

This age brings a sweet calm but also a sadness, una tristeza. Many things won’t be repeated: barreling 100 miles an hour on a motorcycle down a California freeway in the middle of a cold night; bicycling the perimeter of Puerto Rico, a long-ago, unfulfilled dream; having the sole motor of an Aeronca Champ conk out at 800 feet, forcing a spiraling, white-knuckle descent to a New Orleans runway …

… speedily bolting a crib together alone at night after my wife heads to the hospital earlier than expected; having my daughter call me Daddy; visiting a Cuban dictatorship with a Mexican; visiting a Haitian dictatorship with a Frenchman; a first view of England from the seat of a DC-10; seeing notes of music dance with DNA helices over a Florida lake while listening to frog songs sung far, far away; moving to Mexico alone with two suitcases …

… getting married yet again.

Best to enjoy the calm, an uncommon sensation decades ago.

I never amounted to much, as we Southerners say, but that goes for most people. Most of us simply breathe and live. With luck, we do minor damage and some good. The most the majority of us can hope for is that we made some small difference, sometimes in the life of only one other person.


“If I can stop just one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain.”


Emily Dickinson wrote that, and I believe it. The flip side is that you do not break hearts. Twice divorced, I fear I have been remiss in that.

Now*
Now*

I committed one major error. I drank too much. It went on for 25 years, from age 26 to 51. I was never a raving drunk. I never spent a night in jail. I never lost a job. I was a low-level boozer, blotting things — mostly myself — out.

I quit one sunset evening in March of 1996. I was sitting alone in the outdoor patio of a taco restaurant in Houston, Texas. It was a conscious decision.

I remember marveling at my clear-headedness. It was easy, and life made a 180-degree flip overnight. Things have been great ever since.

So I was born twice. Once in 1944 and again in 1996, so I’m not really 70 years old. I am 18, and my child bride is not really my third wife but my first. I’m just getting started.


“Death should take me while I am in the mood.” — Nathaniel Hawthorne


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* Photo by Jennifer Rose.