The Patriot Post® · Black Skins, Black Souls?
I know that the rabble that populate the BLM movement don’t represent all blacks, just as the remnants of the Ku Klux Klan don’t represent all whites. But I also know that there is a lot more support of the mob within black communities than there is for the Klan in white communities.
I also know that a white politician who voices the slightest criticism of blacks, whether he mentions their criminal activity, their reliance on drug sales and use, their lack of education or their rate of illegitimate births and abortions, will see his political career crash and burn. On the other hand, whether running for city council, mayor, governor or a seat in Congress, any black who doesn’t speak out against white Republicans, white cops, white shop owners, white landlords and doesn’t scapegoat white people for the lowly status of black people, can kiss his political career bye-bye.
For years, I’ve insisted that there is far more racism among blacks than among whites. Today, my belief has been borne out in cities all across America.
The mob would insist they have torn down the statues of Washington, Jefferson and Robert E. Lee, because they were slave owners and represented the Confederacy. They would also say they were toppling the statues of Christopher Columbus because he was responsible for bringing white men to the land of red men (and damn lucky he did because it was evil white men who brought their ancestors to North America because otherwise they would still be trying to out-run lions and cheetahs).
But it begs the question why would they also be tearing down the statues of Ulysses Grant, a Union general; Hans Christian Heg, a Norwegian immigrant who died while fighting to free the slaves; Abe Lincoln, the Great Emancipator himself; and Jesus Christ?
What was their crime or sin? Well, what aside from their gender, did these four men have in common? Only their race. They were all white.
Of course black lives matter, but, sadly, a lot of those lives are beginning to mean less and less. I mean, if 20 or 30 black people, including kids, can be mowed down over a single weekend in places like Chicago, Baltimore and Atlanta, and the mass of black people not only don’t rise up against the gangs that murder their kids with impunity, but even refuse to cooperate with the cops, why should anyone waste sympathy on them?
I am convinced that if George Floyd had never been born, the BLM would have had to invent him, just so they’d have an excuse to get funding from George Soros to show us a preview of what America would be like if they, represented by Joe Biden, Bernie Sanders, Ilhan Omar and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, were running things.
These past few months have been like watching a travelogue of what life in Hell must be like.
We Americans invented cars, so it stands to reason we’d make the rules of the road, just as we did with baseball.
So, how is it that the Brits not only put the steering wheels on the wrong side, or as I like to think of it, the silly side, but then compounded the foolishness by deciding to drive on the silly side of the road?
I’ve given it some thought and the only thing I can come up with is that they’re still smarting over the shellacking they got from the Colonists.
Well, there’s no getting around the fact that it must have been embarrassing for the allegedly greatest army in the world to be pantsed by a bunch of farmers and shopkeepers, but is that really an excuse to carry a grudge for over 200 years?
I mean, is driving the wrong way really the mature way of showing us they can’t be pushed around?
Frankly, considering that a couple of American lads named Wright came up with the airplane, I’m a little surprised that the British twits didn’t decide to fly their planes upside down and backwards.
There is a reason I have always felt that if I had been as immersed in music at a young age as I was in reading and comedy, I could have found my calling as a composer.
I think it has something to do with logic. The reason I am the worst person in the world you’d ever want to tell a joke to isn’t because I wouldn’t get it, but because I’d get it long before you finished telling it.
I’m obviously not talking about a snappy one-liner. I’m referring to jokes with plots that could serve as the blueprint for a novel. Generally, three or four sentences in, I know the punchline. That’s because logic dictates that it is inevitable. In fact, I will often start laughing at that point, but be stony-faced by the time the jokester finally delivers the punchline.
If I then tell the guy that I thought it was a funny joke, he doesn’t believe me. And why would he? The only good thing about it is that nobody ever tells me a second joke. But that’s okay with me. Most jokes aren’t very funny unless they’re told by masters of the medium, comic geniuses like Henny Youngman, Joan Rivers, Rodney Dangerfield, Rita Rudner and Alan King.
Well, I respond to songs the way I do to jokes, although I’ve loved a lot more songs. If I hear, say, the first dozen notes of a song I’ve never heard before, I feel the rest of the tune is inevitable.
I think the fact that I can whistle most of my favorite songs bears out that I have a good ear. I don’t whistle when there are people around because having people look at me when I’m whistling always makes me laugh.
But once, during a long drive, assuming my wife Yvonne was asleep in the passenger seat, I whistled a medley of Cole Porter, George Gershwin, Frank Loesser and Rodgers and Hart tunes for my own entertainment. But at one point, Yvonne suddenly said: “That’s amazing. You even did chord changes.”
I didn’t know I had. I had just whistled the song I heard in my head.
Best of all, when I whistle while walking Angel, she doesn’t look at me and make me laugh and I don’t have to pay royalties.
Which reminds me, my old Tin Pan Alley friend Harry (“Three Little Words”) Ruby, described Heaven as the place where they have to pay you a nickel every time somebody whistles one of your songs.
I would owe an awful lot of people an awful lot of nickels.