Dates of Infamy
After the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor, President Roosevelt declared Dec. 7, 1941, to be “a day of infamy.” On Sept. 11, 2001, when a gang of Islamic terrorists crashed four airliners into the Twin Towers, the Pentagon and a Pennsylvania field, killing 3,000 Americans, the nation mourned yet another sneak attack.
Of lesser import, but still a shock to the nation occurred on April 25, 2011. That was the day that Superman, who had been the symbol of “truth, justice and the American way” for several decades, announced in Action Comic #900 that he was no longer an American. Standing before the General Assembly of the United Nations, he renounced his citizenship, claiming that “the world is too small, too connected,” and that he was henceforth “a citizen of the world.”
The nation was stunned, but I recalled that he had been an illegal immigrant from the start, arriving uninvited and undocumented in a farmer’s field in Kansas, where he was rescued by Jonathan and Martha Kent (a.k.a. Ma and Pa) who gave him a home and changed his name from Kal-El to Clark Kent.
Those of us who hoped that Superman had perhaps simply sniffed a little too much kryptonite and been temporarily deranged when he renounced his American citizenship, which was tantamount to giving the finger to his adoptive parents and the nation that had given him refuge, were proven wrong.
Alas, I suspect that his actual birth parents, writer Jerry Siegel and illustrator Joe Shuster, both of whom were the sons of poor Jewish immigrants, would have approved of Superman’s declaring himself a citizen of the world, that being pretty much the attitude of America’s open-border left-wing elitists.
At long last, a federal judge made the news by doing something besides declaring that President Trump had overstepped his constitutional authority by preventing suspected jihadists from entering our country. In Virginia, Judge E.S. Ellis ruled that Robert Mueller was overstepping his authority by going on a fishing expedition in order to bring down the president.
Clearly, that is Mueller’s intention. Otherwise, why would an investigation into alleged collusion with Russia have evolved into a catchall including Paul Manafort’s business affairs and a lawyer’s payoff to a porn star? And how is it that every member of his investigative team is a registered Democrat, most of whom were financial donors to Mrs. Clinton’s presidential campaign? In a nation that is equally divided between Democrats and Republicans, that, all by itself, would make the investigation highly questionable.
I know that Robert Mueller is allegedly a Republican. But so are John McCain, Jeff Flake, Jonah Goldberg, Bob Corker and Karl Rove. When it comes to a one-man wrecking crew like Trump, past party registration means nothing.
As Dan Bongino, former Secret Service agent and frequent guest on Fox, pointed out: “Investigations are supposed to look into actual criminal activities and then go after the individuals who are involved; in Robert Mueller’s case, he targeted individuals and then tried to connect them to crimes.”
As soon as Robert Mueller came on the scene as special counselor, I knew he was a nogootnik. It wasn’t that I had the power of foresight, it was the fact that, seemingly without exception, people on both sides of the political aisle were vouching for his honesty and integrity. The folks in Washington, DC, have carved careers and fortunes out of being dishonest. As for integrity, 99% of those legislators and bureaucrats can’t even spell the word.
In case you think I’m engaging in hyperbole, consider the fact that, according to Forbes, Barack Obama’s net worth in 2008 was $8 million. As of 2012, it was $24 million, and three years later, it had nearly doubled to $46 million. That’s pretty impressive, considering his salary at the time was $400,000 a year.
Still, that pales in comparison to the Clintons, who had a net worth in 1992 somewhere south of a million dollars. As of October, 2017, the figure stood at $240 million. Granted, these people know how to make their money work for them. As you may recall, Hillary once invested something like $1.27, a skate key and a well-thumbed copy of Saul Alinsky’s Rules for Radicals in the stock market and saw it magically transformed almost overnight into $100,000.
In some ways, I confess I am a bit of an odd duck. For instance, I dread having to wear long pants, much preferring my tennis shorts, even on cold days. I also hate speaking on the phone, as I nearly always find my mind drifting if I don’t see the person I’m addressing.
Another thing I would avoid if possible is having my picture taken. It’s not that I think I’m ugly or am embarrassed by my looks; I just hate posing and being expected to smile on cue. Even when it doesn’t call for posing, it is nearly impossible to take a candid photo of me because I am as skittish around someone lurking nearby with a camera as I am around liberals.
All that being the case, you can imagine how weird I find it that so many people are seemingly obsessed with taking selfies. It is a peculiar form of narcissism, so it’s no surprise that Obama engaged in the activity.
I’m reminded that aborigines refuse to have their photos taken, convinced that the camera has the power to steal their souls. I used to pooh-pooh that belief until I started hearing the political comments of people like Meryl Streep, George Clooney, Matt Damon, Ashley Judd, Whoopi Goldberg, Rob and Carl Reiner, Jimmy Kimmel, Madonna, Danny Glover, Joy Behar and Stephen Colbert.
Just in case anyone is keeping track, I would add Alan Mowbray and George Sanders to my list of favorite character actors, and, thanks to Penny Alfonso’s reminder, I would add James Dean to my list of least favorite actors. On screen, Dean’s trademark was being a whiny baby. Although he only made three movies, “Rebel without a Cause,” “East of Eden” and “Giant,” and was Oscar-nominated for two of them posthumously, what I remember best was hoping that someone, be it Jim Backus, Raymond Massey or Rock Hudson, would slap him silly and make him stop his incessant sniveling or at least give him something to cry about.
Thank to Marie Colburn of Hernando, Florida, emailing me a batch of tombstone inscriptions, I can share them with you with the assurance that while death can end a life, it needn’t end a sense of humor.
Actress Joan Hackett, who was wonderful in “Only When I Laugh” and “Support Your Local Sheriff” and died way too soon at the age of 49, signed off with: “Go away — I’m asleep.”
Mel Blanc, who gave voice to such cartoon legends as the Road Runner, Porky Pig, Tweety Bird, Wile E. Coyote, Daffy Duck, Foghorn Leghorn and Bugs Bunny, bid the world adieu with “That’s All, Folks.”
But others, not as famous as Ms. Hackett and Mr. Blanc, let the world know “I Told You I was Sick,” “If You Can Read This, You’re Standing On My Boobs,” “Well, This Sucks,” “I Finally Found A Place To Park In Georgetown,” “Here Lies An Atheist, All Dressed Up And No Place To Go,” “I Came Here Without Being Consulted And I Leave Without My Consent,” “Now I Know Something You Don’t” and “Here Lies John Yeast — Pardon Me For Not Rising.”
Being of a certain age, I suppose it wouldn’t be remiss to start planning my own parting statement. If I die while slipping on a banana pill, I think “Whoops!” would be appropriate.
Other contenders are “I Sure Hope God Knows I Was Only Kidding,” “Hold My Seat, I’ll Be Right Back,” “What’s A Nice Guy Like Me Doing In A Dump Like This?” and “I Fully Expect To Live Forev- …..”