The Miracle of America
Even the most ardent atheist must question his beliefs when he considers the birth of this great nation.
Even the most ardent atheist must question his beliefs when he considers the birth of this great nation. When he looks around today and considers the riffraff who hold public office in a nation of 330 million, how can he not see how extraordinary it was that in 1776, when there were only about 2.5 million Americans in the 13 original states, this nation was blessed to have the likes of Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, John and Samuel Adams, Nathan Hale, Paul Revere, John Hancock, Patrick Henry, Alexander Hamilton and James Madison, serving as midwives at its birth.
These were men leading a revolution against the most powerful nation on the face of the earth. When they pledged their lives, their fortunes and their sacred honor, to the cause of liberty, it wasn’t virtue-signaling as we’ve come to know it. It was virtue, plain and simple. Their word was their bond, and their bond could easily put a noose around their collective necks if General George Washington wasn’t able to defeat the British forces.
But the fact that Washington was not only able to lead an army of farmers and shopkeepers to victory over the army that would, not too many years later, stop Napoleon in his tracks, but would never even be wounded in battle, points to the intervention of a just and merciful Creator.
These days, when generals tend to be far from the field of battle, it’s no surprise that they retire without a scratch, unless they happen to cut themselves shaving. But Washington rode at the front of his troops. Moreover, he made a massive target, being 6-foot-2 and weighing about 200 pounds, which meant he was roughly seven inches taller and 40 or 50 pounds heavier than those under his command.
There were comments from both British marksmen and Indians who swore that they took dead aim on the General and somehow missed him. The Brits may have attributed it all to luck; the Indians apparently thought he was the Great Spirit or at least a man particularly favored by the Great Spirit. After a while, they wouldn’t even consider targeting him.
You can attribute his survival to dumb luck or superstition, but when King George III got word that George Washington had been offered the American crown but refused it, he said, quite correctly, “He is the greatest man on earth.”
So, naturally, it figures that 243 years later, a high school in San Francisco would be so offended by a mural depicting the man’s remarkable life, they will spend $600,000 removing it from the wall of a high school auditorium.
Meanwhile, in nearby but equally addled Berkeley, one of America’s foremost maestros, Richard Kaufman let me know that the city’s leaders are going the extra mile to remind the rest of us that there’s something in the very air of the Bay area that has the power to turn the human brain to mush.
The nincompoops have decided to neuter the language by changing “manholes” into something called “maintenance holes,” that “man-made” will henceforth be referred to as “human-made” and “manpower” will become “human effort” or “workforce.”
In their concerted human effort not to leave any loose ends, linguistically speaking, they have even managed to turn fraternity and sorority houses into “collegiate Greek system residences,” a term that stumbles off the tongue as clumsily as a drunk making his way home at two in the morning.
The City Council has also banned such pronouns as “she,” “her,” “he” and “him” in favor of “they” and “them.”
If you ask me, they and them are as crazy as bed bugs.
Even though the Minneapolis Star Tribune helped her get elected and even has her picture hanging in the newspaper’s lobby, Ilhan Omar has denounced her hometown rag as racist.
It seems that she, even more than Maxine Waters, Kamala Harris and Michelle Obama, reflexively refers to anyone who disagrees with her even once as racist.
I have a feeling that if a reporter ever asked her what she thought of Congresswoman Omar, she would automatically label him a racist before she realized that she is Congresswoman Omar.
The good news is that in a recent poll, 69% of respondents said they opposed Socialism.
The bad news is that 50% of American voters are so stupid they will nevertheless cast their ballots for whichever Socialist gets the nomination.
That is why when a subscriber let me know that he’s certain President Trump will be re-elected in a landslide next year, I had to pop his balloon.
“I do believe he will win,” I wrote, “but I can’t see how it can possibly be a landslide. Between them, California, New York, Illinois, Maryland, Oregon, Washington, New Jersey, Hawaii, New Jersey, Vermont, Colorado, Connecticut and Massachusetts, have so many electoral votes, the deck is always stacked against the Republican. Even Hillary would have won in a cakewalk if just 100,000 votes of the 130 million cast had gone to her instead of Trump.
For some of us, the outcome of that election was as miraculous as America’s victory over the Redcoats.
Whenever hurricane season rolls around, I find myself wondering who it is that names those natural disasters.
This season, I looked it up. Apparently, it’s the gang over at the World Meteorological Organization that has the responsibility.
They have to come up with names not only for the Atlantic Tropical and Semi-Tropical storms, but those for the Eastern North-Pacific Tropical and Semi-Tropical storms.
The first five names on the first list are Andrea, Barry, Chantal, Dorian and Erin; the first five on the other are Alvin, Barbara, Cosmo, Dalila and Erick. If they get all the way to Wendy on the Atlantic list or Zelda in the Pacific, we’re all in big trouble.
The question that still niggles at my brain is whether the wacky crew at the WMO consider the names compliments or insults.
I know I would feel pretty lousy if day after day weathermen on radio and TV were reporting that Hurricane Burt was pounding Florida, Louisiana and Texas, mercilessly, leaving hundreds dead and thousands homeless.
On the other hand, if Hurricane Burt was closing in on San Francisco, Oakland and Berkeley, is it possible I’d be cheering on my namesake from 400 miles away? Especially during an election year?
I’d hate to think so, but I know myself too well and I sure wouldn’t put it past me.
Dave Krueger passed along the following chuckle: "I live in fear that Trump will deport my Latino mother-in-law, who lives at 1837 N. Oak Street, in Bakersfield, CA. It’s a white house with blue trim and she gets off work at 5 p.m.”