Just never know

two

SITTING FRIDAY at a sidewalk table downtown, nursing a nice café Americano negro* and reading Ernie Pyle’s excellent Brave Men, I heard a racket coming down the street.

It was a small parade. I have no idea what the occasion was, but I did whip out my new Fujifilm Finepix 850exr, a sweetheart of a camera, and snapped a few shots.

Living here is great because you never know what you’ll see next. A companion shot can be found here.

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* I love typing this accurate Spanish phrase. Were I to do so while a student at an American university, I would handcuffed, tried by a kangaroo court and expelled.

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.

The luckiest generation

MY FATHER WAS a member of The Greatest Generation, Americans who suffered through the Great Depression and still had the will to defeat the Nazis and the Japanese during World War II.

shoeThese guys then put Germany and Japan back together before coming home and gearing up the most successful and innovative economy the world has ever known.

I am one of that generation’s offspring. Perhaps you are too. My generation is called the Boomers, but a far more accurate name would be The Luckiest Generation.

We have never known true want. Except for our soldiers in foreign lands on occasion, a necessity, no one has ever shot at us or dropped bombs on us. We’ve never faced famine or refugee camps.

Since we’ve been so lucky, most of us don’t think about the fact that few people across the grim pages of history have had it this good. I’m talking about the “Western World,” which I define as the United States, Canada, Western Europe, and I’ll toss in the Aussies and New Zealanders.

It’s the world of liberal democracy, capitalism and freedom.

The Luckiest Generation should go to bed each night thanking the Goddess for its good fortune. Most do not, and their offspring, the grandchildren of the Greatest Generation, do it even less, if at all. They are Twittering, Facebooking and Instagraming.

The leading edge of my generation, those who timed it just right, like me, is getting long in the tooth, and the odds are that we will go to our cremation urns relatively unscathed.

What incredible good fortune, good karma. We are blessed.

Chickens never change

FOR MOST OF the first six years of my life I lived with chickens, thousands of chickens.

There were two enormous chicken houses, one on either side of Granny’s home, there in southwest Georgia where my parents hauled me shortly after birth, down from Atlanta. I recall those chicken houses as about the size of a football field, each of them, but I doubt they were that big. But they were huge. Believe me.

chickenNow you don’t want thousands of chickens — they were Rhode Island Reds for those of you who know chickens — living too close to where you eat and sleep. Chickens are noisy, vicious and their personal hygiene is nonexistent.

So they were off far enough, out there on one side in the grove of pecan trees and out on the other side in a pasture where cows grazed. The cows were Herefords for those of you who know cows.

Those two huge chicken houses could not have been cheap, and we were not rich, to put it mildly. The chicken farmer was my father, and I’m guessing he got a loan after the war ended, something like the G.I. Bill, which was for education. But he already had a degree before the war.

Perhaps there was another bill to construct chicken houses.

cowThe endeavor did not last more than four or five years. One night burglars ran off with a big chunk of those chickens. The number 500 sticks in my mind, but I could be wrong. I remember the sheriff in the kitchen the morning after, asking questions.

Never found the chickens, of course. They all look alike.

We had started out with 2,000 or so, and 500 left a sizable gap.

I don’t recall my father actually selling chickens. What I remember is selling eggs, lots and lots of eggs. We had little egg scales on which you place an egg to determine if it’s small, medium or large. I haven’t seen one of those scales in decades. It would be a nice conversation piece, or you could just weigh your eggs.

By the time I was 7 and entering the Second Grade, we were in Jacksonville, Florida, my father having given up on chickens and freelance writing to return to the newspaper business. However, those massive chicken houses remained on either side of my grandparents’ home for a long, long time, empty.

One day they vanished.

Years passed, and I never heard a chicken, which was okay by me. They are nasty, stupid critters, almost as dumb as bunnies. Being a former farm boy, I also — like chickens and cows — know rabbits.

Flash forward a good piece of time. I wake every morning now to the sound of chickens in the distance. There are barking dogs too and the occasional bray of burros, but it’s the chickens that stand out.

Chickens never change.

And they’re on their best behavior when fried.