Revelation

by J.D.H.

 

Harry and Louise both had the same thought at the same time: refills. They rose from their respective lawn chairs and began the short stroll toward the back door of the kitchen and, inside, the lemonade pitcher. Refreshing.

As they walked, Harry and Louise had just time enough to notice the brilliant white flash on the horizon, followed by a billowing mushroom cloud.

 

**

 

Then the world blew up.

 

THE END

 

 

Click here for the index of short stories.

Click here to see all of the stories.

 

© 2010-2021 grouchyeditor.com (text only)

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Biden’s 6-Month Report Card:

 

“F”

 

We give the stuttering dotard an F. If there was a lower grade, Biden would own it.

There was a good reason why Biden’s handlers hid him during much of his campaign, and now we can all see it.

And if you voted for Biden just to prove a point, congratulations! You certainly showed those Deplorables how it should be done, didn’t you?

 

On the other hand, if Biden’s true goal is to tear the country apart, then he’s doing an admirable job.

 

**

 

 

I’m tired of every criticism aimed at law enforcement — FBI, Capitol Police, et al — prefaced with the caveat, “The vast majority of men and women in (insert agency name) are hard-working, honest, good people.” No, they are not. Their silence/inaction in the face of so much corruption makes them all complicit.

We need way, way more whistleblowers. Until we get them, you people are all tainted.

 

**

 

Do we have some sort of civic duty to care about the Britney Spears saga?

 

**

 

 

Notice what these summaries have in common? The dreaded “slow pacing” critique.

A lot of reviewers complain about this. I’ve complained about it. And yet, I don’t believe there’s anything inherently wrong with a slow pace. It’s what we’re watching that matters, not how long it goes on.

I’ve enjoyed many movies and shows that have scenes without so-called “action,” but are still absorbing because you want to watch a character simply think or feel. Or you need to catch your breath between the “action” scenes.

 

**

 

The unprecedented influx of illegal aliens must have the mainstream media salivating. 

In the unlikely event that someone other than a Democrat is elected our next president, just think of his or her unenviable task regarding illegal immigration. The only way to reverse the millions of uninvited guests who now populate the country is to … (gasp!) deport. Deport a lot.

Just think of how happy that would make the media, which would have no end of sob stories about “families torn apart” by the new president.

 

**

 

Finally, some good news:

 

 

**

 

Editor’s note: A new “Tale From The Grouch” coming tomorrow.

 

 

© 2010-2021 grouchyeditor.com (text only)

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Thwup!

by J.D.H.

 

Mr. Brickbottom adjusted his Van Cleef & Arpels’ cufflinks. He straightened his Tom Ford tie, and glanced at the corner of his office, at the shiny new X.222 PowerPak. He pushed a button on the ebony console on his desk, and silently began counting to five …

On the count of four, the office door opened and his secretary, the ever-efficient, ever-timely Eliza Toot, ran a hand through her red hair and smiled at him. Brickbottom ran his own hand through his own hair — recently groomed at a cost of some five hundred dollars.

“Good morning, Ms. Toot. I was wondering what time they scheduled my three o’clock.”

Ms. Toot replied: “Three o’clock, Mr. Brickbottom.”

Brickbottom glared at Toot. Was this her idea of some kind of joke? But then he realized his error. “Of course, of course. I meant to say, where have they scheduled my three o’clock? I don’t want to miss it.”

 

**

 

From the hallway outside of Brickbottom’s office, there came a faint sound: “thwup.”

 

**

 

Ms. Toot consulted her daily planner. “The conference room on the 38th floor, Mr. Brickbottom. Would you like me to be there?”

Brickbottom opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything, Ms. Toot was thrust violently over his desk and fell clumsily onto his lap. Without a word, Ms. Toot removed herself from Brickbottom and scurried back to the other side of his desk.

“Quite all right, Toot,” Brickbottom said, readjusting his tie and brushing back his hair.  “I take it you forgot to remove your Pak.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Brickbottom. Yes, I just got in ten minutes ago, and then Mr. Barnstebble approached me with some issue or other … I quite forgot about the Pak.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Brickbottom watched as an intern in the hallway, some cute young college student named Julie, flew past his office in a blur. “Thwup.”

He turned to survey the scene outside his 36th-floor office window. A score of businessmen and businesswomen were soaring through the air, no doubt late for work, judging from their harried expressions. A few of them whizzed by just feet from his window.

As he was observing this scene, one of fliers, a man in a grey suit and fedora, halted in mid-air.  The man appeared to convulse … lurched forward a few yards … convulsed again … and plunged 36 floors to his death.

 

**

 

Brickbottom turned back to Ms. Toot. Eyes wide, Ms. Toot had also witnessed the falling man.

“Better move the three o’clock to one o’clock, Ms. Toot. This can’t be good.”

Ms. Toot was all business again. “Yes, sir.” She turned to leave the office.

“Oh, and Ms. Toot? I guess I needn’t remind you what you should have for lunch. Or rather,” at this, he nodded toward the window, “how much you should have for lunch.”

Toot nodded and began to leave the office, but was again propelled forward by some unseen force. She smashed headlong into the office door. “Thwup.”

 

**

 

Mr. Brickbottom was alone now in his office. The meeting was to take place in less than an hour, but it seemed pointless to him. He looked again at his X.22 PowerPak, and then out the window. More of them were falling now. It was lunchtime, but instead of making their way to restaurants, people were plunging face-first onto the sidewalks and streets far below.

It was a full-scale catastrophe, and Brickbottom, architect of this disaster, contemplated his options.

He studied the bookcase across from his desk. The top row was lined with cans of Flatula, his company’s main product. Combined with the X.22, Flatula produced a form of energy that had replaced cars and planes and buses and gasoline. It had been hailed as a “miracle product.” People would consume Flatula, attach their PowerPaks, and propel themselves anyplace and anytime that they liked. It was the ultimate “green” energy.

But something was obviously going horribly wrong. People like Ms. Toot and Julie the intern could no longer control their propulsions. Others, like the poor businesspeople outside his window, were falling to their deaths. And it was all Brickbottom’s fault.

Brickbottom slowly rose from his chair and put on his PowerPak. He made his way to the window, opened it, and stepped out onto the ledge.

What could be the problem? Was it the formula, Flatula, or was it his pride and joy, the X.22 PowerPak? If either was flawed, he was effectively finished. He and the company he had created.

Brickbottom reflected that his formula and device had been tested and tested and tested … no, the problem must be human error. People were not operating them correctly. He stepped off the ledge and farted. “Thwup.” He activated his PowerPak.

 

**

 

Ms. Toot knocked gently on Brickbottom’s office door — eight times. No answer. She wanted to make sure he would be at the meeting, especially since everyone was calling and demanding that he be there. Including members of the board of directors. She pushed open the door and peeked around it.

Mr. Brickbottom was not at his desk. His window, however, was open.

Ms. Toot frowned and walked quickly to the window. She looked out, then down. She saw a spinning, cartwheeling figure plummeting toward the pavement. The figure’s shiny cufflinks twinkled in the sunlight.

The spinning figure seemed to be making rapid-fire sounds as it fell: “thwup-thwupthwupthwupthwup” —

splat!

 

 

THE END

 

Click here for the index of short stories.

 

© 2010-2021 grouchyeditor.com (text only)

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The Porthole

by J.D.H.

 

Sarah Seemore was drunk … and stuck.

“Oh, my,” Sarah said. Fog-headed, she tried to recall how she’d gotten into this predicament. In front of her, she could see the outline of the ship’s railing as it swayed up and down, up and down. This disorienting motion — along with the alcohol in her system and the pre-dawn darkness at sea — did nothing to clear her head.

“My goodness,” Sarah said. From what she could tell, there was no one on the outside deck.

When she felt well enough to move, Sarah found that she could not; something was binding her at the waist.

She began to cry “Help!” — but then memory began to come back. It was a porthole, of course. She had foolishly joined the men at their party, and had drunkenly said that, of course, she was small enough to slip through that porthole … if someone would just hold her drink for her …. And so here she was: stuck.

 

**

 

Inside the ship’s lounge, Moogbar stirred on the floor. He thought he might vomit, decided he would not. At least not yet. Through bloodshot eyes, he surveyed his surroundings and counted three other men on the floor. Passed out. Some party, Moogbar thought.

He heard a soft moaning, and sat up on the floor. The moaning turned into a voice: “Someone?” A high-pitched, girlish plaint.

Moogbar turned to his left and there it was. Jutting out from the bulkhead of the ship’s lounge, like a peach-colored corsage on a lapel, was the most enticing thing he’d ever seen — a perfectly shaped derriere. In a blue-denim skirt. A blue-denim miniskirt.

“Oh, my,” said Moogbar, to no one in particular.

Moogbar blinked and rubbed his eyes. He looked again at the fleshy protuberance in the bulkhead. To its left was a bank’s ATM. A metal plate affixed to the machine announced: DEPOSITS, WITHDRAWALS. Moogbar felt much better.

 

**

 

Sarah had nearly passed out again when she felt something touching the part of her person that was still in the lounge, not out on the deck. “Hello?” she said. No answer. But someone was fumbling with her skirt. “Oh!

 

**

 

Moogbar wracked his brain, trying to recall the name of the movie. The Toxic Avenger, yeah, that was it. He had raised the girl’s skirt, yanked down her lacy panties. “My goodness,” Moogbar said, overjoyed with his good fortune.

Oh!” said Sarah.

 

**

 

Someone else stirred on the floor of the lounge. It was an older gentleman, stooped and bald-pated. “Whuh?” he said. He saw movement near the ATM machine. The old gent blinked and tried to focus his eyes. Where the hell were his glasses?

A rhythmic motion at the wall; the idiot Moogbar seemed to be humping it. His sweaty ass was pumping frantically. There were red blotches on his rear. Pimples. The old gentleman looked away.

 

**

 

Oh, please stop!” cried Sarah.

“Ooomph!” said Moogbar. “Ooomph Ooomph OOOMPH!” said Moogbar, and he collapsed to the floor.

The old man stared at Moogbar. Moogbar looked back at him and grinned. He had finally remembered the line from Toxic Avenger: “Always did want to corn hole me a white bitch,” he quoted. He smiled at the older gentleman and gestured to the bare buttocks protruding from the porthole. “Now’s your big chance, old timer.”

The older man gaped at the sight. He could not recall the last time he’d had sex. He would think of sex, look at his wife, and immediately lose interest. But now, as he ogled the shapely young peach just a few feet away, it seemed to beckon to him.

Why not? Who would ever know?

 

**

 

Ahhhh!” said the old man.

Oooooh!” said Sarah.

Yaaahhh!” cried the old man. His old-man pants drooped to his old-man ankles. Keenly aware of Moogbar’s judgmental gaze, the old man thrust his bony pelvis as he hadn’t thrust it in years, deep into this gift from the gods.

Ooooooh!” said Sarah.

“Boom-chucka, boom-chucka, boom-fucka Ohhhh!” cried the old man. Spent, the dirty deed done, he collapsed to the floor.

Moogbar laughed. “Enjoy that, old man? Not bad for such an old rooster. What say we go outside, see what she looks like from the other end?”

 

**

 

On the deck, outside in the dark, there she was, her long auburn hair partly obscuring her face. At the sound of footsteps, she looked up at them.

“Daddy!” she cried.

The old man gaped at his daughter, and his teeth fell out of his mouth.

 

 

THE END

 

 

Click here for the index of short stories.

 

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Two-sentence (Netflix) reviews!

 

 

Major Grom: Plague Doctor

I am picturing Vladimir Putin as he complains, “Why should Hollywood make all the blockbuster superhero movies?” The result is this eye-popping piffle from Russia, which is silly, yes, but also expensive-looking and often amusing. Grade: B

 

 

A Classic Horror Story

Italy jumps on the “ironic” horror-flick bandwagon, in which the plot steals from better movies but hey, it’s OK because the audience is in on the joke, right? No, it’s not OK, but the end credits are clever — if you can make it that far. Grade: C+

 

 

You Are My Spring (pictured at top)

Ignore the sappy title, which reminds me of an old Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald duet (look it up, kids). This South Korean mix of murder mystery, family drama, and romantic comedy somehow manages to work — at least through the first four episodes. Grade: A-

 

 

Fear Street

Hey, it’s a three-part slasher flick with a decent budget! Hey, it’s all way too familiar! Grade: C

 

 

The Mire (season 2)

I still have trouble following this Polish crime drama (click here). But I enjoy not understanding it. Grade: B

 

**

 

 

Great job, Rotten Tomatoes — that description really nails it!

 

**

 

 

**

 

Editor’s note:  New “Tale From The Grouch” coming tomorrow!

 

© 2010-2021 grouchyeditor.com (text only)

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The UFO

by J.D.H.

 

Abdul, a wiry boy of 13, aimed his toe at the pink chunk of quartz on the ground and let fly with his right foot. The pebble took flight, clearing the gravel road, the adjacent ditch, and a line of scraggly bushes before landing somewhere out of sight beyond a small hill. Abdul glanced to his right at Chumley, also 13, for some sign of approval, but Chumley was still droning on …

“You’re a lucky one, Abdul, because you have a real father. You don’t have a stepfather who gets drunk all the time and hits you,” Chumley said, his eyes never leaving the gravel road.

Abdul, tiring of this never-ending complaining by his chunky friend, glanced over his shoulder at the two boys who were trailing them: Mugwump and Theodore. Lost in their own conversation, those two had also missed his NFL-caliber rock punt.

“You get to go home and everything’s normal for you,” Chumley went on. “You just watch TV and read your brother’s Playboys … and you don’t have to always worry that you might say the wrong thing. Or say anything.”

There was a brief cry from behind, and Abdul turned to see Mugwump and Theodore engaged in a tussle. This would not end well for Theodore, Abdul thought; Mugwump had a good 20 pounds and two inches on the smaller boy.

 

**

 

Abdul thought he heard a faint whirring sound, possibly from the other side of the small hill. He looked back at Chumley and decided to change the subject, get his fat friend’s mind off this depressing stepfather subject.

“Want to come over and look at Playboys? Klumil got the new one.”

“Oh, yeah?” Chumley’s eyes lit up: The diversionary tactic seemed to be working. “Maybe I can later, after we eat. What time is it, anyway?”

Abdul was about to answer when he heard the whirring sound again. Now it was coming from above them. He looked up and saw the UFO, a bus-sized mass of shiny metal, glowing orange and shaped like a gigantic Frisbee. It was hovering no more than 15 feet above their heads. As he watched, mouth agape and eyes wide, a pendulum-thing lowered from the belly of the ship and drew even with Chumley’s head.

WHOOOSSHH!

 

**

 

Chumley’s head, severed neatly at the neck by the pendulum-thing, sailed silently through the air, off in the direction of the quartz pebble. Abdul watched it land with a soft thud on the hillside, then roll gently down to the bottom of the hill, where it came to rest near a rosebush.

 

THE END

 

 

Click here for the index of short stories.

 

© 2010-2021 grouchyeditor.com (text only)

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Jerk of the Week

 

So many “Jerk of the Week” candidates from which to choose. We’ve narrowed the list to these two charmers:

 

“Get over it.” — Anthony Fauci’s advice to vaccine holdouts. “You’ve gotta ask: What is the problem?” he added.

What is the problem? YOU are the problem. YOU lied to Congress and YOU lied to the American people, and now they are expected to trust you?

 

*

 

“We teach history, not hate.” — Randi Weingarten, pictured above, in a teachers’ union speech. 

When I was a kid, teachers were well respected. We went to movies like To Sir, with Love and Up the Down Staircase, in which the teachers were heroes. Teachers were liked.

Now they are possibly the most reviled Americans. And it’s their own damn fault.

 

**

 

The Kansas City Royals have a pitcher named Richard Lovelady. “Dick” Lovelady.

Where are Beavis and Butt-Head when you need them? Heh-heh. Heh-heh.

 

**

 

Sell-out Songs

 

There should be a special place in hell for advertisers who buy once-popular songs and then ruin them by bombarding the public with commercials that bastardize the tunes.

Normally, there is a song that gets demolished just once this way. But what on Earth is the deal with “Our House,” a song I used to like from Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young? Is it being done to death by both Allstate and Hy-Vee?

I did some Wikipedia research on the song: “It was used as a commercial jingle for Eckrich sausage in the 1980s, and for Sears Kenmore appliance advertisements in 1989. It has appeared in various television shows and films, including the 1996 Only Fools and Horses Christmas special, Time on Our Hands, watched by 24.3 million viewers in the United Kingdom. It was also used in an advert for Halifax Building Society in the 1990s.”

Like I said, I used to like it.

 

**

 

Big Brother finally raised its first-place prize money from $500,000 to $750,000.  It’s about time cheapskate CBS increased the cash, considering how ridiculously inexpensive the show is to produce and the fact that Big Brother has been one of the network’s few reliable moneymakers for two decades.

 

**

 

From our “comments” box:

 

 

Fair enough.

Wait … not fair enough. Next time, would you mind telling us what we did to make you so upset? Were there too many things to mention?

 

**

 

 

Thanks again, Babylon Bee.

 

© 2010-2021 grouchyeditor.com (text only)

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Contagion

 

For about an hour, Contagion is superb: eerily prescient, educational, and a first-rate thriller. Steven Soderbergh’s 2011 drama about a killer virus that originates in China and then spreads worldwide pushes a lot of emotional buttons, in no small part because it so accurately predicts much of what COVID 19 hath wrought. Soderbergh ratchets up the tension as health officials race to find the source of the virus and then, hopefully, to produce a vaccine.

Yet the second half of the movie is oddly anti-climactic. As the story shifts to less-than-compelling subplots involving those health officials and regular folk, the suspense peters out. Release: 2011 Grade: B

 

**

 

Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark

 

The gist: A young girl and her pals discover an old book that conjures monsters bent on avenging injustices perpetrated by the citizens of tiny Mill Valley. I realize I’m not the target audience for this movie, which could be described as Nancy Drew meets Guillermo del Toro (he’s a producer and writer). The target audience would be young teens. But still, it would be nice if Scary’s plot wasn’t so derivative and predictable. You can usually guess what’s going to happen five minutes before it does.

Also, much like its plot, the film’s politics are about as subtle as a severed toe in your stew. Every time someone passes a television (this is 1968), we are reminded just how bad “Tricky Dick” Nixon was. And the chief sin in Mill Valley seems to be a white male population that is 95 percent racist.

On the plus side, the movie does look good (I sense del Toro’s influence), the monsters are amusing, and it isn’t boring — just annoying. Release: 2019 Grade: C

 

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Rusty

by J.D.H.

 

Editor’s Note:  This is the debut of “Tales From The Grouch,” a series of short stories written by J.D.H.  The tales will appear periodically in this space.

 

**

 

Rusty tossed and turned in the bed, unable to sleep. She rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling, at the thousands of little whirls and bumps in the off-white-colored plaster. Her insomnia was maddening. It was late, and so not a good time to do much of anything except lay here and toss and turn. Toss and turn.

She craned her neck and examined Bill, who lay beside her, exhaling softly in his sleep. Rusty could not recall the last time she’d heard Bill snore. But it was comforting to have him here, asleep beside her in the bed. He smelled good. Life was good between Rusty and Bill, but there were things she missed about their former life ….

Like when they lived in the city, and would go for late-night walks along the boulevard, just the two of them. Sometimes it would rain, an event that made both of them unhappy, but it was exhilarating to run with Bill back to the apartment. It was warm and snug in the apartment, and Bill would cook something good for them to eat. Happy times.

Suburban life was another thing altogether. Bill would leave for work in the mornings, and Rusty would be on her own for the day. There were the neighbors with whom she could socialize, of course, but they had youngsters, and Rusty, with no young ones of her own, felt like an outsider. She would be out in the back yard, near the clothesline, and hear the neighbors on the other side of the fence. They would exchange greetings, and then Rusty would go back to her isolated existence, there in suburbia, while Bill was at the office earning their keep.

Rusty tossed and turned in the bed. Tossed and turned. No sleep, but it was good to once again be sharing a bed with Bill. Recently, there had been trouble, but that was to be expected in any long-term relationship. There was a misunderstanding, something Rusty did not yet understand, but the result was that Rusty had spent several evenings in the guestroom across the hall, and Bill had stayed in the master bedroom.

And now she lay beside him, listening to the wheezing and thinking of all of the good times. The walks in the park, the smell of bacon in the kitchen as Bill made breakfast ….

 

**

 

“Rusty, is that you?”

Bill was awake but sluggish. Apparently he’d forgotten that their on-again, off-again sleeping arrangements were “on again.”  It was dark in the bedroom, so Bill reached over and stroked Rusty’s thigh. He ran his hand through her hair. It felt good to her, and it made her feel secure.

 

**

 

In the morning, Rusty saw streams of sunlight filtering in through the Venetian blinds, and wondered how long she should lay there. Bill was a notorious late sleeper, not an early riser like she was, and so she left the bed, paused at the bathroom door, but then decided to go downstairs and to the kitchen. She was hungry, and possibly some of yesterday’s leftovers would appeal.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, she noticed that the back door was slightly ajar. She went to the door, peeked through the crack, nudged the door open, and walked out.

There was something in the far corner of the yard, something on the ground that had not been there the day before, she was certain of it. She knew every inch of the yard, spending as much time there as she had, and this was a foreign object. It was small and dark … and new. Part of it seemed to rustle in the wind. Rusty went to investigate.

 

**

 

Bill rubbed sleep from his eyes as he entered the kitchen. Bacon and eggs would be good; coffee would be better. He saw that the back door was open, and he noticed that Rusty was nowhere in sight. Bill went to investigate.

 

**

 

Rusty sat on the grass in the far corner of the yard, feeling sick to her stomach. She felt something rising in her intestines, and tried to keep it down. She’d had this sickening sensation before, many times, but it was never a pleasant thing. She leaned forward and up it came. She vomited onto the grass what was left of the bird she had just eaten.

From the kitchen door came Bill’s voice:

“Rusty! Bad girl! What have you eaten now?”

Rusty rolled onto her back, paws in the air, and gasped for breath. This was turning out to be a very bad week. On Saturday she had endured shots at the vet’s office. Now this.

 

 

THE END

 

Click here for the index of short stories.

 

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I don’t have kids, so the future of America belongs neither to me nor to the fruit of my loins. (I do, however, have some Fruit of the Loom underwear from the 1980s, in case anyone’s interested.)

But I watch the news, and I see that schools are teaching your precious snowflakes about the “1619 Project,” “Critical Race Theory,” and drag shows from local red-light districts. Some people think this is progress; other people envision what I envision: a nation of Eloi, the passive, socialistic young people in H.G. Wells’s The Time Machine.

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. Read Wells’s dystopian novel (or, if that’s too much to ask, watch the 1960 movie) and decide what you think of the Eloi and their foes, the Morlocks.

The Eloi are docile and ignorant but apparently happy. They eat lots of fruit (see photo above). The Morlocks have been forced underground and are unreservedly hostile — to say the least. They are ugly and brutish (see photo below). Together, these two versions of humanity are forced to co-exist.

 

 

I am a grumpy, oldish, chain-smoking, pot-bellied male who rarely leaves the cave and has yet to be vaccinated. In Wells’s world, that would no doubt qualify me as a deplorable Morlock.  

And yet I’d much prefer the company of the uncouth Morlocks to that of the dimwitted Eloi.

 

On the other hand, if the space aliens who are orchestrating our Great Reset demand that I join the Eloi or face extinction, well, point me in the direction of Yvette Mimieux. The Eloi might be brainwashed sheep, but they are good-looking sheep.

 

**

 

The difference, methinks, between the Morlocks/Eloi of The Time Machine and today’s Right/Left is that today’s warring factions are (for the most part) not so stupid.

Deep down, I suspect that many on the right will concede that the left’s goals are admirable. How can anyone be against a fairer society? Income disparities are too great, discrimination based on race is abhorrent, and no one should be marginalized based on sexual orientation.

The problem lies with the left’s means to an end. They downplay human nature, and they don’t want to deal with nuance. They are becoming authoritarian — and that’s worse than whatever “utopia” they hope to achieve.

 

**

 

 

Here’s an interesting article about Bill Maher.

The problem with Maher remains his blind hatred of All Things Trump, an animosity which apparently stems from some lawsuit the two of them engaged in years ago.

 

**

 

 

It’s time for an “illegal alien clock,” which will spin crazily and predict how long before illegals outnumber Americans in the United States.

Unlike the national debt clock, which most people want to slow down, the illegal alien clock will go faster and faster, because that’s what our president and the Democrats apparently want.

 

 

**

 

I was reading an article about Kamala Harris in Politico when the story was interrupted by an advertisement (below). 

It does say “Advertisement” in faint, small type, but geez, Politico.

 

 

**

 

 

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