The Patriot Post® · The Countdown to 1/20/17

When I was in grammar school, come May, I would begin scratching off the days until summer vacation. As the time drew nearer, I would start scratching off the hours. That is what I and, I wager, millions of others are now doing as we finally see the end of the Obama nightmare on the horizon.

Hardly a day passes that the worst president in history doesn’t further tarnish the office. Who but Obama would dare say that the Paris conference on climate control is an act of defiance against terrorism? Is it possible that even he believes such crapola? Does he actually picture terrorists around the world cowering in fear, saying to one another: “Oh, no, I think he really means business this time. If he actually goes ahead and holds his breath until his face turns blue, we’re goners. Even Allah can’t save us.”

Speaking of he who not only says that the weather is the greatest threat facing America, but that he can make Mother Nature say “Uncle!” is not without his fans. In 2014, for instance, the Saudis sent jewelry worth over a million dollars to Michelle, Malia and Sasha, but they didn’t ignore Barack. What really caught my attention was the nature of the gifts they FedExed to the Oval Office. They sent the commander-in-chief a robe of sheer white fabric with a beaded floral pattern and pink and purple trim. They also sent him an orange sheer fabric floor-length cape and a blue paisley robe with a beaded pattern and pink trim.

Do you think the Saudis know something that I merely suspect? Can you imagine them sending similar girly gifts to Vladimir Putin? Or Caitlyn Jenner, for that matter?

In case you thought that after spending millions of our tax dollars to bring him and an entourage of 500 to Paris, that was an end of Obama’s profligate spending, think again. It seems that he and French president Hollande snuck off to dine at L'Ambroisie, a lavish 17th century-style restaurant located in the secluded Place des Vosges, where an average dinner runs nearly $400. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to discover if Obama wore either of his Saudi gifts for his night out with the dashing Frenchman.

I did learn, however, that Obama wasn’t the only politician who flew off to Paris for the conference. It seems that both my governor and my mayor joined the festivities. I can’t say I’m too surprised that Jerry Brown and Gil Garcetti also believe that weather is the greatest threat to national security. After all, they have already gone on record as endorsing a multi-billion dollar boondoggle known as a bullet train between L.A. and San Francisco, even though a recent poll of California voters confirms that nobody would ever use it because it’s only a six-hour drive and you still need a car when you arrive.

As I have written elsewhere, if these conferences were ever held in Bakersfield, Biloxi or Beirut, instead of Paris, London and Brussels, nobody would ever show up even if they were simply dying to show off their beaded pink robes.

In referring to the notables who descended on Paris, a clever friend of mine called them a “whored” of politicians.

Rumor has it that in the new movie “Revenant,” there is a scene in which a bear sodomizes Leonardo DiCaprio. I, too, hated “Titanic,” but even I think that’s taking movie criticism too far.

When it comes to bigotry, I always said that people who revile others for no better reason than their skin color or their religion were just lazy. It was my contention that once you really got to know people, you’d usually discover that there were far better reasons to despise them. I still feel that way, but I must confess that Muslims and urban blacks keep providing me with those better reasons.

At times, it seems as if things couldn’t get any worse. After all, we have seen three straight presidents who had no good reason to be elected in the first place be re-elected to a second term. The last time we elected three presidents in a row to two terms, it was 200 years ago and their names happened to be Jefferson, Madison and Monroe.

But because I remain a glass half-full kind of guy, I prefer to relish the fact that Jimmy Carter wasn’t elected to a second term, and that Michael Dukakis, Al Gore, John Kerry and Howard Dean, were never elected, and that the same will hold true for Hillary Clinton.

Finally, I have a confession to make. Although I was prepared to be drafted and sent off to Vietnam, at the Army physical, I was found to have a medical problem that prevented my serving in the military.

It was probably fortunate for the Army because I know I would have made a lousy soldier. Don’t get the wrong idea. I would have been prepared to fight and kill for my country, although not quite so gung-ho when it came to dying or being maimed on behalf of a nation that spat on its returning vets.

But my time in the ROTC strongly indicated that I was not only not officer material, I wasn’t really up to PFC status. For one thing, I couldn’t shoot. In fact, until ROTC, I had never shot anything but a cap gun and a water pistol.

At rifle practice, the ROTC officer would tell me to call my shots, meaning I was to identify where on the bull’s eye, my shot had landed. We were supposed to identify the hits as if on a clock. We were expected to say “11 o'clock, sir” or “Noon, sir.” Instead I would say, “I am pretty sure I missed the target, sir.” “Call your shot,” he’d say. “Okay, four o'clock.” Then they’d check the target and tell me I hadn’t hit it. “See?” I’d say, “I told you I didn’t hit it.” I felt I should at least have gotten credit for calling it correctly, but nobody else felt that way.

When I transferred from UC Santa Barbara to UCLA, I no longer had to shoot, but I did have to march and attend really boring ROTC classes. Well, there were days when I didn’t feel like doing either, so I would go AWOL. Such desertions would earn me demerits. Once you reached 10, they could hold a court martial hearing. Because I didn’t feel like ROTC should be mandatory on a college campus, I wrote an occasional editorial to that effect in the Daily Bruin.

Then, as night shall follow the day, I got my notice. I was to turn up at the ROTC bungalow at the end of the school day to face a tribunal. It didn’t start off well because, although I was punctual and wore my uniform, I entered without knocking. I was told to go out and knock. I pointed out that I was already inside, but promised to knock next time. I thought that was reasonable, but they disagreed.

So I went outside and knocked. I couldn’t hear them through the door, but after a few seconds, I assumed someone had said “Enter.” This time, they let me stay.

As I recall, there were five ROTC officers seated at the long table. They took turns asking me about my occasional absences. I acknowledged they had their facts right. After 10 or 15 minutes, they asked me if I would change my ways if they didn’t find me guilty. A guilty verdict meant I would be kicked out of school because at the time, ROTC was mandatory for undergrads.

I told them that I couldn’t promise to do what they wanted. I pointed out that I usually showed up and that should be good enough. Instead of giving me credit for my honesty, they said that I was leaving them with no option but to give me the boot.

I told them they wouldn’t dare do that. It was obvious from their stunned looks that I had just uttered the last words they ever expected to hear. When the top guy asked me what made me think that, I pointed out it was obvious this was a kangaroo court that had been formed for no other reason than to punish me for my editorials, which, I reminded him, were protected by the First Amendment.

The proof, I went on, was that I happened to know a lot of guys who had far more demerits than my paltry 10, and if they kicked me out, I’d raise a stink and they’d have to kick out all of them. And I knew, as did they, there was no way UCLA was going to let that happen.

They told me I could expect to receive their final decision.

After 56 years, I’m still waiting.