If this were another time, say the middle ages, people like Alberto Phineas Gore, Jr would find they would've been separate from their bodies, head on a pike. The global warmer enthusiasts would be happy to provide the cleaver for this man whose prophecy could not have wrought more anger from God. Every confab on warming interrupted by severe cold, special envoys to the poles to study the warming trapped in ice for days, and now the stakes are raised by polar vortices which could have Atlantians off the grid for a month or so until the utility companies can repair all the damage this latest Polar Vortex has wrought.
Where is the false profit, Gore? His light shines nowhere. His voice like a pin dropped in outer space, like a tree crashing in the forest without ears to hear.
The man who cried anthropomorphic global warming during a solar sunspot minimum to ginny support for an unpopular world carbon tax for the sole benefit of a more and more useless, thoughtless, and selfish governing class, has wisely dropped from public view. He is reportedly a Howard Hughes type recluse, an enormous glutton with a voracious appetite for banana pudding topped with beluga caviar sprinkled with Reeses'Pieces. His skin is becoming translucent. If he stands naked in front of a light he appears to be two large blue spots and a brown one.
Doctors have said it is only a matter of weeks until his flesh will become completely invisible and his intestines will be displayed in all their undulating magnificence. He is pitiable but grotesque. He is living with the lie he fashioned from whole cloth. He feels betrayed by the Sun and refuses to ever be in the sunlight again for as long as he lives.
My only concern is we may burn all the pikes trying to stay warm before enough heads have taken their earned and rightful places atop.
Good luck Georgia. May God have mercy on your electrical grid and upon Al Gore, Jr's soul.
Jackson Delano Maybolt, President Urban Poverty Law Center
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Monday, February 3, 2014
I May Be Dead, But How Do You Think America Feels?
I am Jackson Delano Maybolt. I was preceded in death by Steve Jobs and to my great fortune have bought one of his first "Afterlife Apple" products and am trying it out. It is great. I can surf the web of the Dead. I can get the news of the present, past, and future. I know the winning lottery numbers, but the celestial moderator will not let me publish them: 12, 45, 7, 14, 28, 6, power ball number 2. Though I can see the numbers on my end your view will be blank. All I have to do is to think it and the "AA" types it. It has a phone function which interfaces with earthly iPhones, but the moderator is not keen on permitting this kind of contact between the realms as He puts it "no one could get any rest around here." But I think your iPhones may be lit up in the near future from persons you were sure you would never hear from again.
I watched the Superbowl last night and was taken by its mediocre tones, with the lack luster play by the Bronco's offense, the advertisers who could not seem to make a ten billion dollar a minute advertisement memorable or even thought provoking. Where is Michael Jackson's beautiful sister's titty when you need it. Speaking of which, there is a rock and roll heaven and Elvis still has a bit of a problem with constipation, but his voice is as good as ever and he has teamed up with John Lennon for a new tour of the heavens.
My contention is the Americans who are alive and living under the reign of his majesty Lord Barack H. Obama, JR have given up all hope of improving their lots. This man has sucked the spirit, the economy, the hopes and dreams of every American and replaced these with a morose foreboding acceptance of their new fate where a drab and dreary life known only to the oppressed who lived in the former Soviet Union, is the new normal and upward mobility is replaced by the dreadful floor of socialism. A socialism which only allows the leadership class to thrive and get ahead on the shoulders of the working class and the former middle class.
The New Socialist States of America will have a very short run, thank heavens. Americans are the children of the people who left harsh conditions in the old country to make a better life in a wilderness. These children will rise up and rebuild the dream that is America. The New American socialist will be beaten back. Freedom has not had its run to the finish line in America, not yet at least.
The Obama tribe of redistributionist have played their hands with the destruction of American health care and the people are not satisfied with his wonks tinkering with our freedoms, where real Americans have lost real freedoms to assemble, speak, bear arms, be secure in their property and homes safe from unwarranted searches, and the 13th amendment is being butchered by the 16th amendment and the thugs who have infiltrated the bureau which collects sometimes over 45% of the fruits of a man's labor.
When is a man considered a slave? What percentage of his income taken by the state would make him a slave in fact and free in name only? In reality slavery and socialism are one and the same.
In the South slaves were clothed, fed, housed, warmed, and provided with medical care at no cost to them but 100% of their labor and their freedom. Many Americans are enslaved by the regime working first for the man, then for the general good, and finally for the good of himself and his family. The way things go now, money is freedom. Taking money from workers is enslavement.
The inflating of money is taking money from everyone and fosters slavery. The line is being tested by these people to see what Americans will agree to. I believe the push back will begin in the next election cycle. Tea baggers will work hard and get ahead, and the government needs to take back its rightful place in society where it serves the people and not itself. This November will be a chance for a push back against tyranny. Here's hoping for a big push!
Hell, why should I give a damn? I am dead and here I am equal to all the kings and queens who have ever been or ever will be, and they hate that!
Jackson Delano Maybolt, Celestial President Urban Poverty Law Center
I watched the Superbowl last night and was taken by its mediocre tones, with the lack luster play by the Bronco's offense, the advertisers who could not seem to make a ten billion dollar a minute advertisement memorable or even thought provoking. Where is Michael Jackson's beautiful sister's titty when you need it. Speaking of which, there is a rock and roll heaven and Elvis still has a bit of a problem with constipation, but his voice is as good as ever and he has teamed up with John Lennon for a new tour of the heavens.
My contention is the Americans who are alive and living under the reign of his majesty Lord Barack H. Obama, JR have given up all hope of improving their lots. This man has sucked the spirit, the economy, the hopes and dreams of every American and replaced these with a morose foreboding acceptance of their new fate where a drab and dreary life known only to the oppressed who lived in the former Soviet Union, is the new normal and upward mobility is replaced by the dreadful floor of socialism. A socialism which only allows the leadership class to thrive and get ahead on the shoulders of the working class and the former middle class.
The New Socialist States of America will have a very short run, thank heavens. Americans are the children of the people who left harsh conditions in the old country to make a better life in a wilderness. These children will rise up and rebuild the dream that is America. The New American socialist will be beaten back. Freedom has not had its run to the finish line in America, not yet at least.
The Obama tribe of redistributionist have played their hands with the destruction of American health care and the people are not satisfied with his wonks tinkering with our freedoms, where real Americans have lost real freedoms to assemble, speak, bear arms, be secure in their property and homes safe from unwarranted searches, and the 13th amendment is being butchered by the 16th amendment and the thugs who have infiltrated the bureau which collects sometimes over 45% of the fruits of a man's labor.
When is a man considered a slave? What percentage of his income taken by the state would make him a slave in fact and free in name only? In reality slavery and socialism are one and the same.
In the South slaves were clothed, fed, housed, warmed, and provided with medical care at no cost to them but 100% of their labor and their freedom. Many Americans are enslaved by the regime working first for the man, then for the general good, and finally for the good of himself and his family. The way things go now, money is freedom. Taking money from workers is enslavement.
The inflating of money is taking money from everyone and fosters slavery. The line is being tested by these people to see what Americans will agree to. I believe the push back will begin in the next election cycle. Tea baggers will work hard and get ahead, and the government needs to take back its rightful place in society where it serves the people and not itself. This November will be a chance for a push back against tyranny. Here's hoping for a big push!
Hell, why should I give a damn? I am dead and here I am equal to all the kings and queens who have ever been or ever will be, and they hate that!
Jackson Delano Maybolt, Celestial President Urban Poverty Law Center
Saturday, January 18, 2014
Jack Maybolt Sells Out, Moves On To His Great Rewards, The Urban Poverty Law Center Is For Sale.
My name is Pres. Clinton Maybolt. I am Jackson Delano Maybolt's nephew by marriage. My mother is a life long democrat and loves President Clinton and his wife Hillary more than life itself. If I had been a girl I would have been named Hillary. Mother found this blog while searching through Uncle Jack's things and found a note from Uncle Jack which instructs the family on the dissolution of the blog should anything unexpectedly happen to him.
If you missed the Jackson Sun's account yesterday, Uncle Jack was crushed by a tree he was felling down by the river. He was pinned by a large Sycamore as it fell and bounced towards rather than away from Uncle Maybolt. He often cut trees for firewood alone and since no one could really get along with him, he was not missed until his secretary, Susan Blunderdoss, came back from visiting her daughter, Margot, who recently gave birth to her 3rd grandchild, a boy, in Pinkertons, Missouri. Susan sounded the alarm but it took the local search and rescue team led by the Carroll County Sheriff's department about a week to muster the team together. It was the holidays you see. The team said they looked far and wide, but Bobby McDaniel's says they mostly looked at the Parker's Road Store sipping coffee and warming up by the potbelly stove.
I should not be writing this today if Junior Ellis's boy, Jr. Junior,IV, hadn't been poaching squirrels over on Uncle Jack and come across that grizzly scene about a week ago and told it to his pal, Martin Ringworm, while riding the bus to school yesterday. Well, Martin told Feckless Worthington, the gym teacher, who called Jr. Junior out of 3rd period social studies, and went immediately to Principle Throckmorton who notified the Sheriff.
The Sheriff, Billy Joe Dundershots, drove to school and loaded up Jr. Junior and Feckless Worthington into his black Chevy four wheel drive Blazer with the tinted windows and sped away from the middle school. Found Uncle Jackson right where the tree had squished his pelvic bones. The coroner, Doc Beavers, said looks like he died of exposure and due to the tree that crushed his middle parts, keeping him from crawling away for help.
Doc Beavers is well respected for his scientific analysis of death scenes. Nobody has his uncannily keen insights into cause of death. He comes to the school every year to talk about his most interesting cases, but he always changes the names of the victims since it is a small community and there is so much kin here, but we kids all know who he is telling about by the way they died.
When Mort Clovis flew his Piper Cub into that tree in the middle of Jug Wheatson's cow pasture, Doc Beavers said his head popped off his neck because of the excessive speed and the sudden stop. Says it flew out of the cock pit of the Piper like a cannon ball striking Jug's favorite Bull in the rib cage, causing the bull to stagger around for almost an hour.
Jug called the Vet out, but the bull pulled through anyway.
Well, I got to cut this short, the bus is on the way and I still have to brush my tooth.
Pres. Clinton Maybolt, nephew, Jackson Delano Maybolt, deceased President, Urban Poverty Law Center
If you missed the Jackson Sun's account yesterday, Uncle Jack was crushed by a tree he was felling down by the river. He was pinned by a large Sycamore as it fell and bounced towards rather than away from Uncle Maybolt. He often cut trees for firewood alone and since no one could really get along with him, he was not missed until his secretary, Susan Blunderdoss, came back from visiting her daughter, Margot, who recently gave birth to her 3rd grandchild, a boy, in Pinkertons, Missouri. Susan sounded the alarm but it took the local search and rescue team led by the Carroll County Sheriff's department about a week to muster the team together. It was the holidays you see. The team said they looked far and wide, but Bobby McDaniel's says they mostly looked at the Parker's Road Store sipping coffee and warming up by the potbelly stove.
I should not be writing this today if Junior Ellis's boy, Jr. Junior,IV, hadn't been poaching squirrels over on Uncle Jack and come across that grizzly scene about a week ago and told it to his pal, Martin Ringworm, while riding the bus to school yesterday. Well, Martin told Feckless Worthington, the gym teacher, who called Jr. Junior out of 3rd period social studies, and went immediately to Principle Throckmorton who notified the Sheriff.
The Sheriff, Billy Joe Dundershots, drove to school and loaded up Jr. Junior and Feckless Worthington into his black Chevy four wheel drive Blazer with the tinted windows and sped away from the middle school. Found Uncle Jackson right where the tree had squished his pelvic bones. The coroner, Doc Beavers, said looks like he died of exposure and due to the tree that crushed his middle parts, keeping him from crawling away for help.
Doc Beavers is well respected for his scientific analysis of death scenes. Nobody has his uncannily keen insights into cause of death. He comes to the school every year to talk about his most interesting cases, but he always changes the names of the victims since it is a small community and there is so much kin here, but we kids all know who he is telling about by the way they died.
When Mort Clovis flew his Piper Cub into that tree in the middle of Jug Wheatson's cow pasture, Doc Beavers said his head popped off his neck because of the excessive speed and the sudden stop. Says it flew out of the cock pit of the Piper like a cannon ball striking Jug's favorite Bull in the rib cage, causing the bull to stagger around for almost an hour.
Jug called the Vet out, but the bull pulled through anyway.
Well, I got to cut this short, the bus is on the way and I still have to brush my tooth.
Pres. Clinton Maybolt, nephew, Jackson Delano Maybolt, deceased President, Urban Poverty Law Center
Thursday, January 9, 2014
All The Views Unfit To Print. The Urban Poverty Law Center, Of Course!
Phil Robertson of Duck Dynasty got the Gaycian flu after he blurted out views held by religious traditionalists concerning what he finds sexually acceptable causing many to vote V or A? I agree with Phil, the V wins hands down.
I am GLADD Mr. Robertson's suspension only lasted about as long as most same sex marriages and he will be back moralizing on A and E. Please do not confuse the A in the first sentence with the A in the third though after their treatment of the patriarch of DD, the similarities are there.
I am not a bigot, though most bigots do not have to make such attestations but I do not want to be forced to celebrate others based on race, religion, sexual deviancy, political persuasion, income, looks, weight, intellect, country of origin, or favorite color. I believe all men are created equally and should live a quite life. We have the theatre and Hollywood and television for the flamboyant among us to run up their flags for the entertainment of all, but none should be forced to view lifestyle choices which are outside one's moral bounds.
When the video of the poor chap having his head cut from his torso came out a few years ago in Pakistan, I chose not to watch. I know it is a personal choice but I find it disgusting and I refuse to celebrate that kind of behavior. I am not equating decapitation with same sex activities, but I am free not to advocate for or approve either.
Discrimination is built into human nature. It is a God given attribute. It allows us to distinguish between, as Mark Twain observed, a lightning bug and lightning, a puppy and a rattlesnake, a child's pointed finger, thumb up and a 45 automatic pistol. OK, maybe the last example blurs the line a little, especially among our valued educators, but I think you get my point.
I quote poorly something I heard on the radio during the above DD flap. "Hey, I am heterosexual! So celebrate me!"
And now we come the the portly governor of New Jersey, Chris Christie. He has fallen on some really bad press for what seems to be a malicious closing of a bridge in a township in New Jersey where the Mayor refused to endorse Big Chris for reelection. And the traffic snarls which ensued are directly related to the untimely demise of a 91 year old woman who was in an ambulance on the bridge, stuck in traffic on the way to the hospital.
The governor killed that woman with his petulant act to punish the mayor and must be held accountable. With great authority comes responsibility. Christie has overstepped the bounds of acceptable behavior. Even worse, there are reports the traffic jam caused a Christian Bakery, which was forced by judicial fiat to provide a wedding cake to a same sex couple to miss the deadline and will be fined $10,000.
Is everything centered about homosexuality? Well, at least it is better than decapitation.
Jackson Delano Maybolt, President Urban Poverty Law Center
Favorite Mark Twain near quote about Rudyard Kipling: "Mr. Kipling knows everything one can possibly know on every subject, and I know all the rest!"
I am GLADD Mr. Robertson's suspension only lasted about as long as most same sex marriages and he will be back moralizing on A and E. Please do not confuse the A in the first sentence with the A in the third though after their treatment of the patriarch of DD, the similarities are there.
I am not a bigot, though most bigots do not have to make such attestations but I do not want to be forced to celebrate others based on race, religion, sexual deviancy, political persuasion, income, looks, weight, intellect, country of origin, or favorite color. I believe all men are created equally and should live a quite life. We have the theatre and Hollywood and television for the flamboyant among us to run up their flags for the entertainment of all, but none should be forced to view lifestyle choices which are outside one's moral bounds.
When the video of the poor chap having his head cut from his torso came out a few years ago in Pakistan, I chose not to watch. I know it is a personal choice but I find it disgusting and I refuse to celebrate that kind of behavior. I am not equating decapitation with same sex activities, but I am free not to advocate for or approve either.
Discrimination is built into human nature. It is a God given attribute. It allows us to distinguish between, as Mark Twain observed, a lightning bug and lightning, a puppy and a rattlesnake, a child's pointed finger, thumb up and a 45 automatic pistol. OK, maybe the last example blurs the line a little, especially among our valued educators, but I think you get my point.
I quote poorly something I heard on the radio during the above DD flap. "Hey, I am heterosexual! So celebrate me!"
And now we come the the portly governor of New Jersey, Chris Christie. He has fallen on some really bad press for what seems to be a malicious closing of a bridge in a township in New Jersey where the Mayor refused to endorse Big Chris for reelection. And the traffic snarls which ensued are directly related to the untimely demise of a 91 year old woman who was in an ambulance on the bridge, stuck in traffic on the way to the hospital.
The governor killed that woman with his petulant act to punish the mayor and must be held accountable. With great authority comes responsibility. Christie has overstepped the bounds of acceptable behavior. Even worse, there are reports the traffic jam caused a Christian Bakery, which was forced by judicial fiat to provide a wedding cake to a same sex couple to miss the deadline and will be fined $10,000.
Is everything centered about homosexuality? Well, at least it is better than decapitation.
Jackson Delano Maybolt, President Urban Poverty Law Center
Favorite Mark Twain near quote about Rudyard Kipling: "Mr. Kipling knows everything one can possibly know on every subject, and I know all the rest!"
Monday, December 16, 2013
There Are A Few Cowboys Left In America: Where are the Cowboys When Needed?
I have part interest in a small farm with about 45 acres of pasture which we lease out to a local cattleman. He uses our land to feed about 30 heifers and three bulls and we call it the honeymoon suite as he hopes the bunch will mate and the heifers will become pregnant. He always brings an older cow to advise the younger ones how to act around a bull. About three months ago the older cow found a break in the fence and left the compound and spent the better part of August and September grazing on soybeans. One night she was up by the road and I walked her, me behind, her in front with no moon and an underpowered LED flashlight for about a mile to the pasture. I got near the gate and she flanked me to the right and was gone again.
My neighbors came three times to report seeing her on the road, a dangerous situation for both man and animal, but the cow was too clever to be coaxed with feed or herding back onto the compound. One rainy day in November the cattleman came and took all the other cows and bulls away and left the outlier for a later capture date hoping she would stay off the highways. I would see her from time to time in my pasture next to the bean field or some times she would come up to the house and eat the grass there. She stayed hidden behind a hill about a half mile south of the house and came up only in the safety of darkness.
I called the cattleman and said I was planning to hire a couple of cowboys to wrangle the wayward cow before she got hurt or hurt someone on the road. The local stockyard gave me Randall's name and phone number and I contacted him. He has a pal who rides and ropes just such problems and they are very reasonably priced. They came out yesterday and I will try to describe the capture.
Randall, a pleasant fellow, with a round face, missing both upper incisors, with a ruddy complexion, capped by a full head of salt and peppered hair, probably about 45 years old, and his friend, whose name I did not catch, but I judged him to be near forty, arrived at my house at about 8:30 yesterday morning in a Dodge diesel pick-up truck pulling a four horse trailer with two brown Quarter horses, both bridled, saddled and ready to go.
We exchanged small talk and I pointed out where I believed the cow spent her days. They mounted their steads and rode off in that direction. They crested the hill and were out of my sight for about 5 minutes and then movement, a half mile away, the white faced black cow is seen running along the hill through the broom sage. She is headed towards the road which is about a half mile further north of her location.
When she breaks off the hillside and into the bean field her footing becomes less stable from the rains we had the night before last and she turns east and is headed back to the pasture which is about 3/4 mile away. Horsemen appear shortly after her appearance and the race is on. Randall is closing in on the cow's left flank, I see him pull his rope, swinging it overhead, he makes a throw, a miss. Meanwhile, Randall's partner comes up on the cow's right flank, and the cow, having run for about half a mile by now, is tiring. She suddenly slows to walk and the cowboy and horse pass her and she turns north again heading for the house and my position.
I do not recall which rider got the first rope on her but in no time there are two ropes on the cow and she is caught. A short struggle ensues, but the cow soon sees the futility in resistance and she gives up the struggle. They are able to walk her up to a horse trailer I had borrowed from my sister and we got her into the trailer, but she was not happy. Unfortunately one of the ropes had snagged her ear tag and there was a nasty rip in her ear. Otherwise, she came through the excitement pretty much unscathed.
After she was locked up safely into my trailer, I paid Randall his fee and he and his pal loaded up their horses and drove away. The entire event lasted about 30 minutes and it was more entertaining than the best episode of the Kardashian's, but from what I have seen, that TV series has bigger horses' asses than the ones I saw on those Quarter horses.
I called my cattleman pal and informed him of the successful capture. I drove her the 25 miles to her winter feed lot at the cattleman's father's farm and we backed up to a coral and opened the gate of the trailer and she walked off as calmly as you please. Her freedom was over for now.
I thank God everyday there are cows like that and cowboys like Randall and his pal. I am even feeling a bit more charitable towards the Kardashians if that is how you spell their name?
Wouldn't it be wonderful if for every problem we encounter there was a problem solver as great, and yet, as simple as Randall and his horse?
There is. We just have to look for it and be bold enough to act when we know we need a "Randall" to get this mess resolved.
Our Congress has far, far to many Kardashians and way to few Randalls. Perhaps 2014 will find fewer of the former and more of the latter in congress.
Jackson Delano Maybolt, President Urban Poverty Law Center
My neighbors came three times to report seeing her on the road, a dangerous situation for both man and animal, but the cow was too clever to be coaxed with feed or herding back onto the compound. One rainy day in November the cattleman came and took all the other cows and bulls away and left the outlier for a later capture date hoping she would stay off the highways. I would see her from time to time in my pasture next to the bean field or some times she would come up to the house and eat the grass there. She stayed hidden behind a hill about a half mile south of the house and came up only in the safety of darkness.
I called the cattleman and said I was planning to hire a couple of cowboys to wrangle the wayward cow before she got hurt or hurt someone on the road. The local stockyard gave me Randall's name and phone number and I contacted him. He has a pal who rides and ropes just such problems and they are very reasonably priced. They came out yesterday and I will try to describe the capture.
Randall, a pleasant fellow, with a round face, missing both upper incisors, with a ruddy complexion, capped by a full head of salt and peppered hair, probably about 45 years old, and his friend, whose name I did not catch, but I judged him to be near forty, arrived at my house at about 8:30 yesterday morning in a Dodge diesel pick-up truck pulling a four horse trailer with two brown Quarter horses, both bridled, saddled and ready to go.
We exchanged small talk and I pointed out where I believed the cow spent her days. They mounted their steads and rode off in that direction. They crested the hill and were out of my sight for about 5 minutes and then movement, a half mile away, the white faced black cow is seen running along the hill through the broom sage. She is headed towards the road which is about a half mile further north of her location.
When she breaks off the hillside and into the bean field her footing becomes less stable from the rains we had the night before last and she turns east and is headed back to the pasture which is about 3/4 mile away. Horsemen appear shortly after her appearance and the race is on. Randall is closing in on the cow's left flank, I see him pull his rope, swinging it overhead, he makes a throw, a miss. Meanwhile, Randall's partner comes up on the cow's right flank, and the cow, having run for about half a mile by now, is tiring. She suddenly slows to walk and the cowboy and horse pass her and she turns north again heading for the house and my position.
I do not recall which rider got the first rope on her but in no time there are two ropes on the cow and she is caught. A short struggle ensues, but the cow soon sees the futility in resistance and she gives up the struggle. They are able to walk her up to a horse trailer I had borrowed from my sister and we got her into the trailer, but she was not happy. Unfortunately one of the ropes had snagged her ear tag and there was a nasty rip in her ear. Otherwise, she came through the excitement pretty much unscathed.
After she was locked up safely into my trailer, I paid Randall his fee and he and his pal loaded up their horses and drove away. The entire event lasted about 30 minutes and it was more entertaining than the best episode of the Kardashian's, but from what I have seen, that TV series has bigger horses' asses than the ones I saw on those Quarter horses.
I called my cattleman pal and informed him of the successful capture. I drove her the 25 miles to her winter feed lot at the cattleman's father's farm and we backed up to a coral and opened the gate of the trailer and she walked off as calmly as you please. Her freedom was over for now.
I thank God everyday there are cows like that and cowboys like Randall and his pal. I am even feeling a bit more charitable towards the Kardashians if that is how you spell their name?
Wouldn't it be wonderful if for every problem we encounter there was a problem solver as great, and yet, as simple as Randall and his horse?
There is. We just have to look for it and be bold enough to act when we know we need a "Randall" to get this mess resolved.
Our Congress has far, far to many Kardashians and way to few Randalls. Perhaps 2014 will find fewer of the former and more of the latter in congress.
Jackson Delano Maybolt, President Urban Poverty Law Center
Friday, December 13, 2013
Urban Poverty Law Center: Obamacare Is A Poison Pill Americans Must Not Swallow!
I have refrained from commenting in this forum on politics for a few weeks and feel I am healthier than ever. The rollout of Obamacare with its dismal results and intended consequences, to date maybe 360,000 American units have acquired insurance through the giant federally mandated insurance exchanges via the $662,000,000 website put together in typical government no bid contract slip-shod manner by a friend of the president's wife, from her collegial days at Princeton, verses the 155,000,000 working American families who stand to lose their coverage under this reign of terror is a big fail!
Republicans may be branded as warriors against women by the Democrat, but this act, Obamacare, is an act of war against the working American family. We need some rules of engagement just as restrictive for our pols as the ones our service men and women must endure in Afghanistan.
I sometimes pine that I was born a decade too late and of the wrong race and background to run in their circles for in this case privilege certainly has its privilege!
My final declaration: This cannot pass for representative governance. Now that Mr. Nelson Mandela is gone, the newly oppressed productive class in America will find a leader who will lead them out of this new bondage we find ourselves in. A bondage which provides very little benefit for its slaves. Borders protection, a joke. Applying the rule of law to all equally, another joke. Protection of the money supply through the full faith and credit of the United States. Honest and fair elections, ha, ha! I could go on but you know this and other atrocities we are subjected to each day.
Where is my congressman? Nowhere to be seen until he or she needs my vote to be playing footsie with the kleptocrats in DC every other November! Where are my senators? Those two cornfed, political hacks, vetted by the establishment, loyal to the establishment who only come around every 6th year for another renewal of a six year contract.
I would suggest that if a Union official made Obamacare part of the package for the rank and file he or she would find out really quickly how hot his life might become at the meeting.
I suggest we do everything in our power to have this law which keeps on morphing, and delayed by the naked emperor's decree after decree, all unconstitutionally, repealed in its entirety by electing pols who promise just this.
Action date is November, 2014. Our votes can right this wrong. Next we can tackle the money problem. This current bunch has a spending problem.
Read Mark Twain's short story: "The Great Beef Contracts" this will show nothing has changed in government for over a hundred and fifty years.
Jackson Delano Maybolt, Phd, President Urban Poverty Law Center
Republicans may be branded as warriors against women by the Democrat, but this act, Obamacare, is an act of war against the working American family. We need some rules of engagement just as restrictive for our pols as the ones our service men and women must endure in Afghanistan.
I sometimes pine that I was born a decade too late and of the wrong race and background to run in their circles for in this case privilege certainly has its privilege!
My final declaration: This cannot pass for representative governance. Now that Mr. Nelson Mandela is gone, the newly oppressed productive class in America will find a leader who will lead them out of this new bondage we find ourselves in. A bondage which provides very little benefit for its slaves. Borders protection, a joke. Applying the rule of law to all equally, another joke. Protection of the money supply through the full faith and credit of the United States. Honest and fair elections, ha, ha! I could go on but you know this and other atrocities we are subjected to each day.
Where is my congressman? Nowhere to be seen until he or she needs my vote to be playing footsie with the kleptocrats in DC every other November! Where are my senators? Those two cornfed, political hacks, vetted by the establishment, loyal to the establishment who only come around every 6th year for another renewal of a six year contract.
I would suggest that if a Union official made Obamacare part of the package for the rank and file he or she would find out really quickly how hot his life might become at the meeting.
I suggest we do everything in our power to have this law which keeps on morphing, and delayed by the naked emperor's decree after decree, all unconstitutionally, repealed in its entirety by electing pols who promise just this.
Action date is November, 2014. Our votes can right this wrong. Next we can tackle the money problem. This current bunch has a spending problem.
Read Mark Twain's short story: "The Great Beef Contracts" this will show nothing has changed in government for over a hundred and fifty years.
Jackson Delano Maybolt, Phd, President Urban Poverty Law Center
Friday, November 29, 2013
Memories of Mammaries And Other Areas Form A Sick Mind: Norwegian Wood
Twain muses in his autobiography how each life is the result of and influenced by an endless series of coincidences which coalesce into the present reality of that individual. These events all began with Adam and Eve and continue unimpeded through the ages.
His life hinged on his mother's childish fury at her physician in training suitor not being available to take her to a dance because of his studies. It was then she decided to accept her second choice suitor, Mr. Clemens. Mark Twain noticed his parents never showed any affection for each other publicly, and at the end of his mother's life she tried desperately to see her physician suitor, she at age 88 and he at 90.
I salute Mark Twain's mother for her second choice in mates for she bore the greatest national literary treasure the United States is likely ever to produce. His first teacher rightly predicted that Mr. Twain was destined to walk among kings and presidents.
His daughter, Suzy, wrote of him in her autobiography, cut short by her death at age 25 of meningitis, that he was often confounded by the simplest of things. For example, he could not understand why the electric burglar alarm sounded when he opened the window from inside the house. One day he was reading a book in the library and was laughing out loud. When Suzy asked him what he was reading he replied, "I do not know." She looked at the title and it was one of his books. He explained in his autobiography that he forgot what he had written soon after it was completed.
I have had my ancestry checked on my father's side only and found the "Maybolts" were not on the "Mayflower" for the founding of the colony at Plymouth, but they were on board the "Fortune" which landed just after the first Thanksgiving there in Plymouth. William, my great x 12 grandfather, arrived there with his wife Martha, and children Will jr and Martha and his wife gave birth to little John the day they arrived there in November of 1621. Then William Jr begat, Thomas, who begat Stephen, then Thomas, then Isaac, then Benjamin, then John, who begat John, Jr, then William Mercer Maybolt, who fought for the Confederacy and begat Carlos William who begat Jesse Hill, who begat Jesse jr who begat me.
I am grateful, I believe, for this unbroken chain of lust and sex which has begot me. For my part, seeing what took place to get me here, I have done my best to keep it going. I have added seven children to the current generation, a son, a daughter, a son, a son, a son, a son and a son. In these days of thoughtful reproduction and limited resources I have oft been chided for my seemingly irresponsible spread of the seed to the egg, but I allay all doubters when I explain I was only having children until I had one I liked. But this is a lie. I am fond of them all. My ancestors chose well the mothers of my grandfathers, and my ability to marry up has strengthened the Maybolt line. I do not believe there is a loser in my litter of little Maybolts.
I have fished since I was three years old, and when I was five my family lived near Gainesville, Florida in the house once occupied by the woman writer who wrote "The Yearling".We were only there for a summer, but my father would drop me off with a cane pole and a box of worms and I would fish all afternoon at the boat ramp at Cross Creek. I caught a good many fish, baited my own hook and took the fish off by myself, and was never kidnapped or molested, snake bitten or drowned or struck by a meteorite.
I recall the fear I had of the multitude of large dragonflies when first we arrived at Margaret's somebody's home there in Florida. I also recall the swampy woods around the house were littered with large empty turtle shells, apparently a local delicacy to the country inhabitants. Chuck Lingren, a friend of my father's, shot a chicken snake to pieces in a tree outside the house with a German lugar his father had brought home from the war. Our baby sitter, a local teenaged girl, peed in the toilet while I secretly watched her through a crack in the door with keen interest in her plumbing, and though it was quite dark, I got the idea that it was a wondrously mysterious place I might want to explore in the years to come. Prescient or precocious?
At age 8, my father loaded up the family and moved us to Oslo, Norway for a year where he studied Nordic literature. My older brother and I complained bitterly that our pals, the Bell brothers, got to go to the Great Smokey Mountains and we had to go to Norway!
There we were enrolled in the Norwegian elementary school. It was 1961 and soon enough after the second World War that the Norwegian people were openly grateful to "the Americans" for defeating the Nazis. This was to our great benefit. We quickly learned the language and made great friends. Our status was raised higher on the second day of school when my older brother, who one might accurately describe as a "tough", beat the hell out of the only other American boy who attended the elementary school, a kid named, Daniel, who was known for his reputation as a conceited ass and a bully.
The principle, a kindly older man in his 50's, called my brother and me into his office after Daniel's ass whooping, and said in so many words it was against school policy for fights to take place on school grounds, and for us not to engage in this activity any further and then he thanked my brother for doing what he had wanted to do himself to little Daniel but protocols forbade it. Daniel was an ass, but we never heard from him again as the beating clipped his wings, and his status fell with the arrival of the new Americans! We were a setback and disappointment to Daniel's reign of terror at Jar Elementary School.
I made friends with Olaf, Arndt, Morten, Estevan, Paul and the prettiest girl in the second grade, whom I lusted after, was a red haired little vixen named, Annaberret. I spell these names as they sounded to my 8 year old ears and can promise no accuracy. Vibecky was our voluptuous 14 year old baby sitter who I would entertain with my inappropriate queries in Norwegian. "Skal vi pula?" Which is a very naughty thing, but it is what we all talked about at the elementary school, at least the boys, with whom I associated. I can still remember her delightful reels of laughter at the illicit propositions coming from my tiny 8 yr old body. I was a man trapped in a child's body for a few years more.
And she would let me make my proposition while astride her, her seated on the couch, and my hands reaching for the bumps under her woolen Norwegian sweater, but she would push them away. I am glad she never consented to my proposition for it was only meant to entertain the both of us and it did to great effect.
We lived in a duplex in a suburb of Oslo. Upstairs was occupied by a Nazi collaborator by the name of Merck. He seemed an old man to my 8 years but perhaps in his 50's. He was bald and fat and complained bitterly to my parents about the noise the four children made. He often caused us problems like the day he called the police when we played with toy guns outside with our friends. He often exposed his genitals to my 7 yr old sister from his bathroom window. When my parents were out at night my siblings and I would march around the house and scream "Fee Fon, Merck!" which I believed was a Norwegian cussing along the lines of "Goddamn or go to hell" ViBecky only smiled and aproved of our parade.
Merck hated us. Oh and Merck was called "Bash" by the locals since he was a Nazi during the war, and his name means "Dark". His name fit him.
I am tired of these memories but will come back to them at a future date.
Is it heaven? Or Hell?
Jackson Delano Maybolt, President Urban Poverty Law Center
His life hinged on his mother's childish fury at her physician in training suitor not being available to take her to a dance because of his studies. It was then she decided to accept her second choice suitor, Mr. Clemens. Mark Twain noticed his parents never showed any affection for each other publicly, and at the end of his mother's life she tried desperately to see her physician suitor, she at age 88 and he at 90.
I salute Mark Twain's mother for her second choice in mates for she bore the greatest national literary treasure the United States is likely ever to produce. His first teacher rightly predicted that Mr. Twain was destined to walk among kings and presidents.
His daughter, Suzy, wrote of him in her autobiography, cut short by her death at age 25 of meningitis, that he was often confounded by the simplest of things. For example, he could not understand why the electric burglar alarm sounded when he opened the window from inside the house. One day he was reading a book in the library and was laughing out loud. When Suzy asked him what he was reading he replied, "I do not know." She looked at the title and it was one of his books. He explained in his autobiography that he forgot what he had written soon after it was completed.
I have had my ancestry checked on my father's side only and found the "Maybolts" were not on the "Mayflower" for the founding of the colony at Plymouth, but they were on board the "Fortune" which landed just after the first Thanksgiving there in Plymouth. William, my great x 12 grandfather, arrived there with his wife Martha, and children Will jr and Martha and his wife gave birth to little John the day they arrived there in November of 1621. Then William Jr begat, Thomas, who begat Stephen, then Thomas, then Isaac, then Benjamin, then John, who begat John, Jr, then William Mercer Maybolt, who fought for the Confederacy and begat Carlos William who begat Jesse Hill, who begat Jesse jr who begat me.
I am grateful, I believe, for this unbroken chain of lust and sex which has begot me. For my part, seeing what took place to get me here, I have done my best to keep it going. I have added seven children to the current generation, a son, a daughter, a son, a son, a son, a son and a son. In these days of thoughtful reproduction and limited resources I have oft been chided for my seemingly irresponsible spread of the seed to the egg, but I allay all doubters when I explain I was only having children until I had one I liked. But this is a lie. I am fond of them all. My ancestors chose well the mothers of my grandfathers, and my ability to marry up has strengthened the Maybolt line. I do not believe there is a loser in my litter of little Maybolts.
I have fished since I was three years old, and when I was five my family lived near Gainesville, Florida in the house once occupied by the woman writer who wrote "The Yearling".We were only there for a summer, but my father would drop me off with a cane pole and a box of worms and I would fish all afternoon at the boat ramp at Cross Creek. I caught a good many fish, baited my own hook and took the fish off by myself, and was never kidnapped or molested, snake bitten or drowned or struck by a meteorite.
I recall the fear I had of the multitude of large dragonflies when first we arrived at Margaret's somebody's home there in Florida. I also recall the swampy woods around the house were littered with large empty turtle shells, apparently a local delicacy to the country inhabitants. Chuck Lingren, a friend of my father's, shot a chicken snake to pieces in a tree outside the house with a German lugar his father had brought home from the war. Our baby sitter, a local teenaged girl, peed in the toilet while I secretly watched her through a crack in the door with keen interest in her plumbing, and though it was quite dark, I got the idea that it was a wondrously mysterious place I might want to explore in the years to come. Prescient or precocious?
At age 8, my father loaded up the family and moved us to Oslo, Norway for a year where he studied Nordic literature. My older brother and I complained bitterly that our pals, the Bell brothers, got to go to the Great Smokey Mountains and we had to go to Norway!
There we were enrolled in the Norwegian elementary school. It was 1961 and soon enough after the second World War that the Norwegian people were openly grateful to "the Americans" for defeating the Nazis. This was to our great benefit. We quickly learned the language and made great friends. Our status was raised higher on the second day of school when my older brother, who one might accurately describe as a "tough", beat the hell out of the only other American boy who attended the elementary school, a kid named, Daniel, who was known for his reputation as a conceited ass and a bully.
The principle, a kindly older man in his 50's, called my brother and me into his office after Daniel's ass whooping, and said in so many words it was against school policy for fights to take place on school grounds, and for us not to engage in this activity any further and then he thanked my brother for doing what he had wanted to do himself to little Daniel but protocols forbade it. Daniel was an ass, but we never heard from him again as the beating clipped his wings, and his status fell with the arrival of the new Americans! We were a setback and disappointment to Daniel's reign of terror at Jar Elementary School.
I made friends with Olaf, Arndt, Morten, Estevan, Paul and the prettiest girl in the second grade, whom I lusted after, was a red haired little vixen named, Annaberret. I spell these names as they sounded to my 8 year old ears and can promise no accuracy. Vibecky was our voluptuous 14 year old baby sitter who I would entertain with my inappropriate queries in Norwegian. "Skal vi pula?" Which is a very naughty thing, but it is what we all talked about at the elementary school, at least the boys, with whom I associated. I can still remember her delightful reels of laughter at the illicit propositions coming from my tiny 8 yr old body. I was a man trapped in a child's body for a few years more.
And she would let me make my proposition while astride her, her seated on the couch, and my hands reaching for the bumps under her woolen Norwegian sweater, but she would push them away. I am glad she never consented to my proposition for it was only meant to entertain the both of us and it did to great effect.
We lived in a duplex in a suburb of Oslo. Upstairs was occupied by a Nazi collaborator by the name of Merck. He seemed an old man to my 8 years but perhaps in his 50's. He was bald and fat and complained bitterly to my parents about the noise the four children made. He often caused us problems like the day he called the police when we played with toy guns outside with our friends. He often exposed his genitals to my 7 yr old sister from his bathroom window. When my parents were out at night my siblings and I would march around the house and scream "Fee Fon, Merck!" which I believed was a Norwegian cussing along the lines of "Goddamn or go to hell" ViBecky only smiled and aproved of our parade.
Merck hated us. Oh and Merck was called "Bash" by the locals since he was a Nazi during the war, and his name means "Dark". His name fit him.
I am tired of these memories but will come back to them at a future date.
Is it heaven? Or Hell?
Jackson Delano Maybolt, President Urban Poverty Law Center
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