BORN A SCHMUCK

I never was a good fighter. It's not that I was afraid---. Oh yes it was---I was afraid---plenty, Tonto. The trick was to somehow hide this yellow streak, which ran from my eyebrow to my pubic hair, from every living being on the planet.

Now, figure this out: for some reason, this crazy obsession worked its way in the reverse. That is, it brought trouble my way, causing frequent malfunctions of my bladder. Go figure, Sherlock!

Wake up, you'll---I'm going on with the story.

The scene :summer camp in New Hampshire-- a CO-ED camp-- and the gals were gorgeous. We were all in college so our ages were perfectly calibrated with the maximum performance capability of our respective sex organs. Stand back, you fool.

Each night, after we put the campers to bed, we would drive to a nearby motel which featured a cool lounge and Sinatra juke box. I love this country!!

In any conversation, the mention of the name WALLY would fetch the identical response: dread, fright, fear, horror, terror, impending doom, etc. etc. etc,,.. The reason for this was a human being in his mid-thirties, 6'6 feet tall whose body resembled the blended bodies of Superman, Batman and Mike Tyson, and whose face accurately reflected the destructive power the heavens had bestowed upon him. Wally was a killer.  One story which had made the rounds had Wally sitting at the bar when a patron innocently asked if he could munch a few peanuts from the bowl resting at the killer's elbow. Wally did not answer with words. Instead, he established contact between his fist and the idiot--stranger's knuckles which were adorned in a cast for a substantial period of months.

In my group walked, seven guys, five ladies--and we began to leisurely drink. I adore this land!

Fifteen feet away from us, five burly men, saddling the breeze (look ma, I talk like a cowboy) and ordering a furious pace. They were all dressed alike: white t-shirts covering bulging yet menacing but rippling muscles, skin-tight jeans---can men sport musclebound assholes?--talking as if they were going to beat the shit out of who cares. Each one more curious than the other, except one who was more menacing then the others. The mother ship of bad mothers. He, unknown to most, was Wally.

As we imbibed, I noticed Wally kept staring at one of the ladies at our table, getting so intense that it could not be ignored. Our guys began to lose all semblance of manhood. It was awkward city. Something bad was brewin'!

And it was in that hell-about-to-explode cauldron, that I again announced to the world that I was the biggest putz of all.

I swigged on my drink, yelled for Shane to come back, stared Wally in the eye, and barked,"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU LOOKING AT?"

Have you ever seen grown men squirm for cover? Drop from their chairs and try to get under the rug? Begin to cry out for "MUMMY?"

Not Wally, you haven't.

He rose to a standing position, looked at yours truly and icily pronounced,"WHATSAMATTER, KID, YA NERVOUS?"

I pissed in my pants.

"YA NERVOUS, KID?"

I shat myself.

Wally approached, his outreached fist enabling contact.

I'm not a praying man except for this time.

"SAVE THE TEETH, LORD, SAVE THE TEETH."

"ONE PUNCH TO CHANGE YOUR PRETTY FACE."

'THE TEETH, LORD, THE TEETH."

"YOU DON'T LIKE ME, I DON'T LIKE YOU"

The monster speaks, and the truth, yet.

"BUT THAT DON'T MEAN WE HAVE TO FIGHT ABOUT IT!!"

If I cover his fist with my mouth, will he smell the scent of surrender?

YES--HE DID! WE BECAME FRIENDS. HE BECAME MY PROTECTOR1

I KEPT MY TEETH AND VOWED IN THE FUTURE TO KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT.

NOBODY MESSED WITH ME FOR ALL THE SUMMERS TO COME.

OOPS', THERE'S WALLY! TICKETS FOR THE MOVIES. WE'LL BE LATE IF I DON'T HURRY.

BUT I AIN'T NERVOUS ANYMORE.

Even the name suggests a circus. "Captain Trump."

Only this guy ain't kiddin'.

Membership qualification is how low can you bow.

But there's something more nauseously at play here, a beckoning to all who carry an{ imagined }

inferiority complex as their cross t.o bear. There is an opportunity to ascend the ladder of physicality

and improve the way you look. NO SURGERY REQUIRED!


I'm talking, people, about a study of NOSES who get the ringside seats at important events. The noses of nobility.


The Prez has the face of a pig. Swollen-almost-shut-eyes,but there. in the middle of this hodgepodge, sits a not-so-bad-proboscis. The out of context little girl nose engulfed by a puffy overblown face.


No pins allowed near the Prez.


What gives with Melania, the first  lady, and Ivanka, married to Jared?

NOSES DIVINE!

THE VOTERS AWAKEN

It's Monday, October 7, 2016, at2:56 pm. Write it down and feel free to look at it as often as you wish  for it bespeaks the truth. You will be able to prove it countless times, for it affirms what I know will be the election result.

Hillary Clinton is not going to just win but will rather deliver a knockout landslide swamping of her opponent. It took a while but the electorate just emerged from its self-induced coma and backed away from a fatal last step.

It matters not how and why they were temporarily blinded for they dodged the curse. The world is right again and will not be so receptive should Trump clones present themselves in the future. We'll be smarter next time.

Breathe easy. The ship of state has righted itself.

Remember where you heard it first.

IT CAN'T BE, BUT IT IS

An examination of Donald Trump's thus far performance in the presidential race mandates the conclusion that he has amassed (as in "kiss my") an insurmountable lead.

The man has shown himself to be a bully, an ignoramus, a schmuck, when he was born the doctor didn't know which end to slap, when asked whether the invasion of Hannibal caused the downfall of the Babylonian empire, his response was "it's beginning to look that way", when he purchased his first suit with two pairs of pants, he ripped the coat, if you knew Suzie like he knew Suzie, her father would be after you toozie, in Shakespeare  , when asked to explain what Lady Macbeth meant when she bellowed,"Out damned spot" he claimed she was insisting that the dog leave the room, etc, etc, etc.....

And yet, by all available polls, Ms. Clinton enjoys a very close but clearly declining lead in the sprint for the White House. How can this be and what does it portend for the future?

I believe it reflects the same voter mentality upon which Trump's securing the nomination is predicated. The electorate is certifiable. It will vote for the candidate who tells them what they want to hear. This smacks of humor but is grounded in the idiocy of Doctor Strangelove. It ain't funny, folks, but we are standing at its edge.

Will the public awake in time to realize the potential for disaster in a Trump presidency?

If the debates don't do it, how can the national momentum right itself?

I keep looking over my shoulder at what might come next from Ms. Clinton's email dilemma and take note of the fact that the other shoe of Benghazi is about to drop.

Trump is now being trained by wily and savvy professionals. So far, his baggage is being discretely jettisoned.

I am afraid.

THE TEST IS YET TO COME

The moment is at hand. No more wiggle room. The most damaging area that Trump can play against Clinton can no longer be submerged.

Investigative documents released yesterday confirmed that Clinton had been extensively questioned  about her judgement in using her private email system to discuss classified drone strikes and in allowing aides to destroy large numbers of emails before it was ultimately decided she should not face criminal charges. Her most often relied-upon defense was that she had deferred to the judgement of her State department aides when emailing her and could not recall anyone raising concerns with her regarding the sensitivity of the information she received at her email address.

                                                   THE--- BOTTOM--- LINE


Clinton admitted mistakes--both procedural and substantive--in the way she handled her private email system. Indeed, the FBI acknowledged that it found no evidence of indictable misconduct, which requires criminal intent and her repository in this regard was barren.

The GOP will be all over this. It shall devour it. Accordingly, the stage is now set for the ultimate mano v womano gut wrenching battle to end all constraint-free politico war grounds.

Clinton has all the factual ammunition she needs. She could write 100 books on Trump's misdeeds and misspeaks. And remember, he who has no conscience is all the more vulnerable therefor.

Trump, by what he says and what he does, provides much self-destructiveness. What Clinton should be wary of is the public perception of what she said and how she said it in her sworn testimony before the Justice Department's top counterintelligence officials.

Things are going to get really rough now as the campaign enters the home stretch, punctuated by the presidential debates. Trump's campaign  is now in the hands of savy politicos. We've got ourselves a horse race.

What is the intent when a mistake is made? This calls for an objective analysis  of a subjective state of mind. Not exactly a path clearly illuminated by definitive highway signs.

When Trump says the things he'll do if elected , what is his state of mind? Patriotism or unacceptable manic interludes?

Record the debates. You'll have a slice of history.

THE WARM HOUSE I LIVED IN

I sat on the edge of the unmade bed. It was evening dark, ushering in shadows dripping in despair, complementing the mood of hopelessness which was engulfing me ,more and more as the light in the house grew dimmer with the advance of a clock, had there been one.

I was in my house or what would be for another day on which a sale would be consummated. My house. So many years of my family bonding together, sharing the divine warmth of everyone sleeping under the same roof, comforting each other even during sleep.

It was that time in life when size of the house was deemed unnecessary and it seemed financially advisable  to sell.

I wanted to kiss every inch of its floors and reminisce about the wonderful events of which it would forever be a depository.

The memories of the house were permeated with love and warmth and hugging and crying and laughter and all the good things that life could entail. It was a magic house, a fine and splendid magic house. It was a thing of beauty, tangibly and ethereally. Its warmth had not changed since my first encounter with it.

I was driving into work when a temporary detour caused me to drive by the house which sported a 

"FOR SALE BY OWNER" SIGN. I wrote down the phone number and thought of nothing else all the day long. The next day, my alpha brain in high drive, I knocked on the magic door and introduced myself to the Madam, a lovely charming woman. I told her why I was there and she gave me a cook's tour. It was love at first sight.

Every room beckoned with warmth, as if the sun would never go down and its purpose was my relaxation. The price was beyond my means but I knew I had to reach for it JUST BECAUSE YOU HAVE TO TRY TO GO FOR IT since I had fallen in love.

Today, even 55 years later, my son and daughter will tell the present owners of their connection to their home and they are greeted with friendship and allowed to examine the premises. I'm not strong enough for that. I'd never make it. Let my dreams nourish me.

This post was not meant to be sad but happy endings are not always manageable.

And my memories are non-tarnishable.

My warm and happy memories.

APOLOGY ACCEPTED

The words of Ryan Lochte to a not-so-impartial Matt Lauer rang of the truth. He sincerely acknowledged his missteps in a straightforward manner and missed no one with the broad sweep of his apologies.This is not, however, a benediction  of his captors demanding money at gunpoint.

He should have stayed with his companions but this is not a crime. It was a victimless error in judgement with booze paving the way, but when confronted with a loaded gun in a locus somewhat less reliable than the U.S. SUPREME COURT, getting out of there pronto-like gets my vote every time.

Why doesn't Lauer procure an interview with the gun carrier, affording us a peek of the other side?

We all make mistakes as we maneuver through our cocoon of human frailties. Stay tuned for developing evidence more fully capturing the atmosphere of what went down. The gun-toter v. the drunk converter of property aint no fair freeway from where I sit. If Lochte had sustained serious bodily injury, the sway of media presumptions would be 180 degrees from where they are now.

Locate looked sincerely chastened  and I for one buy it. The booze led him astray but he's not using this as an excuse for not rushing the gun holder and causing life threatening injury, or worse. No shots were fired. No punches were thrown. Lets try being cool here.

He says he has learned his lesson.

He deserves a chance to prove it.

I say he already has.