The Patriot Post® · Is It Alzheimer's or Amnesia?
Hillary Clinton now claims she can’t recall all or, perhaps, any of her security briefings at the State Department. Apparently she blames it on a concussion she suffered a few years ago. That must be one heck of an accommodating concussion. Apparently, it severely handicaps her memory, but would in no way interfere with her ability to carry out her duties in the single most difficult, stress-inducing, job in the world.
When Bill got the news, he gushed: “Nothing? She remembers nothing?! Golly willikers, that’s a relief!”
At the rate that Mrs. Clinton lies, you’d need an abacus to keep count. For instance, in the beginning of the private server scandal, she said she only used one mobile device for convenience. Then it turned out that she had two. Now it appears she had 13, and would have her aides smash them with hammers when she was done using them. And still, James Comey insists there was no criminal intent behind her use of an easily hacked server.
The truly pathetic thing about her lies isn’t that she tells them incessantly, but that millions of American voters simply don’t care. In a presidential race, they would vote for a sand crab if it had a (D) after its name.
Speaking of liberals, one of their conceits is that the First Amendment entitles them to freedom of speech, but not the right of others to contradict them. Frankly, I blame public education, or at least what passes for education in the indoctrination gulags that liberals control.
We see another example of this social myopia when so-called public servants say “I take full responsibility for my actions” when what they mean is “I am now free of all liability for anything I may have said or done.” They carry on as if only a churl would dare point out that they were merely trying to evade the appropriate consequences of their actions. Confession may be good for the soul, but it doesn’t excuse the crime. It would be better if they would just start out insisting “I take no responsibility. I had a concussion and I can’t remember a thing.”
In 1965, a Senate sub-committee predicted that by 2000, Americans would only be working 20 hours a week. They missed by a few years, but I’d say it was a damn good guess, considering they had no idea that ObamaCare was coming down the pike.
Until I heard Mark Levin mention it, I had no idea that Obama’s nuclear deal with Iran not only gave them everything but the kitchen sink and a complete set of Tupperware, but calls on the U.S. to defend Iran’s nuclear facilities, which we aren’t even allowed to inspect. Assuming that Levin isn’t merely testing our credulity, the deal also calls for us to share our nuclear technology.
At least, the Soviet Union awarded their useful idiots, people such as Paul Robeson, the International Stalin Prize. But all that Obama and Kerry got for their efforts on behalf of Iran was the finger.
That reminds me that before settling on Doc, Grumpy, Happy, Sleepy, Bashful, Sneezy and Dopey, Walt Disney apparently considered naming his dwarves Chesty, Tubby, Deafy, Hickey, Wheezy, Burpy and Awful.
It just happens to be one of those odd coincidences, but today those happen to be the very nicknames their congressional colleagues use when referring to Maxine Waters, Chuck Schumer, Debbie Wasserman-Schultz, Elijah Cummings, Keith Ellison, Xavier Becerra and Mitch McConnell.
Thanks to the sequester arrangement that Obama and Congress worked out, which proved that in Washington when both parties come together and work together in a truly bi-partisan fashion there is no limit to the amount of damage they can do, our military could hardly be in worse shape. It’s not just that the sheer numbers of those in uniform have dropped to pre-WWII levels, but the training of aviators and the maintenance of our planes have sent the number of non-combat crashes soaring.
What makes these avoidable tragedies even worse is that while we’ve cut the military budget by hundreds of millions of dollars, we’ve not only increased welfare for illegal aliens, but handed over close to two billion dollars this year to the fercocktah mullahs of Iran.
The good thing about the G-20 conference was that it took Obama out of the country for several days. With less than 140 days to go before he has to vacate the White House, every day off the calendar is a day to celebrate.
However, the bad thing is that the host country, China, had taken cyber intrusion, its aggression in the South China Sea and the North Korea question, off the agenda. Therefore, the sole purpose of our being represented was the chance for Obama to return from Beijing with a crackerjack recipe for kung pao chicken.
When you realize how many people come up with funny epitaphs for their tombstones, even knowing they’ll never hear the laughs, it speaks well of them.
So hats off to Merv Griffin (July 6, 1925-August 12, 2007) for “I will Not be right back after this message;” Robert Clay Allison (1840-1887) “I never killed a man that did not need killing;” Mel Blanc (1908-1989) “That’s all, Folks;” Rodney Dangerfield (November 22, 1921-October 5, 2004) “There Goes the Neighborhood;” Billy Wilder (1906-2002) “I’m a Writer, But Then, Nobody’s Perfect;” and, my favorite, although the deceased did not get to write his own: “Aqui Descansa Pancrazio Juvenales, 1968-1993, Buen Esposo, Buen Padre, Mal Electricista Casero (He was a good husband, a wonderful father. but a bad electrician.”)
As some of you know, when it comes to my reading matter, I prefer fiction to fact. Part of it is that fiction tends to be written by better writers; non-fiction tends to be produced by those whose long suit is painstaking research, which is often a pain to muddle through.
Although he has sold millions of copies, not as many people seem to know Alexander McCall Smith as I would like.
One of the things I like best about him is that he writes books nearly as fast as I can read them. Apparently the Scotsman churns out between 3,000 and 5,000 words a day, every day. The man must write in his sleep.
Another of his strengths is that you never know what is coming next. In addition to his most famous series, the one that put him on the literary map, “The Number One Ladies Detective Agency,” he has written a number of series, including “44 Scotland Street,” “The Sunday Philosophy Club” and “Corduroy Mansions,” along with stand-alone novels, short story collections, plus 28 children’s books.
But whether he’s writing about a female detective in Botswana or a Scottish widow in Edinburgh, the concerns of his characters are mature and the way that his protagonists go about their daily lives, the ethical questions they deal with, their humor, their humanity and their basic decency, never fail to remind me of the capacity for good that human beings possess. I have, by actual count, read 33 of his books and am presently reading number 34, and hope eventually to catch up and read them all. Still, I have this nagging suspicion that either he or I will have to quit writing in order to make that dream a reality.
As I look around at the world, it strikes me that perhaps God is feeling His years. Perhaps He needs a much-deserved rest. I was thinking that perhaps He should take a vacation and let the Scottish novelist have a shot at running things.
Understand, I’m not faulting the Almighty, but there’s no getting around the fact that McCall Smith has certainly populated his universe with much nicer and wiser people than God has, which is yet another undeniable advantage of working in the field of fiction.
But as I’ve always said, a man who can carry off wearing kilts on his book covers is a man who is clearly up to any challenge.