DATELINE: Robin Bobbin’ on Squirrel
When a plethora of robins showed up this spring in my yard near the big tree, I thought—there goes the neighborhood. However, they started rummaging through last year’s flower stems. Each one was yanked out and taken to some unknown spot for a nest.
That’s when the first wave of bombers hit.
Under the eaves of my side-door porch, I saw birds flying toward the storm door. They never hit because they were building a nest, which I promptly discouraged.
So, the freeloaders went to the big tree not far from the dining room picture window. There, for the first time, they started their architectural work. As if for good measure, they regularly cleaned out the yard of ants and other crawling insects.
The good neighbor policy continued until I saw the squirrels and chipmunks arrive.
It was war.
A half-dozen robins attacked with all the ferocity of kamikaze flights. They chased the squirrels out of the tree and around the yard. I had never seen such nimble flight—and they worked often in pairs till the squirrels ran for cover.
Then, they began chasing the chipmunks out of the yard. Less inclined to climb the tree, the chipmunks were nonetheless not welcome in this yard anymore. They were attacked with zooming claws outstretched.
I thought I watched out-takes from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds.
You may have thought the hawk patrol had been replaced.
Regular bombing runs can be seen during morning coffee break whilst sitting at the window. Warfare never looked so natural.
DATELINE: Genocide from Sea to Shining Sea?
A small, vocal dominating force of Trump enthusiasts wants to stop any vigilance in favor of vigilantes.
They are tired of staying cooped up in the sanctity of their homes to stop a deadly pandemic. Throw open the doors. Throw open the gates, and let the barbarians out.
If they kill themselves with fever and virus, so be it. Amen and pass the ammunition: they don’t want face masks. They want freedom to cough in your face, spread germs wherever they go.
And, it’s time to let them.
If there is a spike in dead people, they will see it. They don’t care—even if it is their own children. It is the survival of the fittest. If little Egbert cannot survive a fake flu, let him perish. We who are about to die, salute him as his casket passes.
Armed rebellion is the answer to microbes. Shoot the little buggers. And shoot anyone who seems to be part of the genocidal approach to medicine and science.
American schools have failed miserably: look what they have produced: a nation of idiots.
Let seniors have their shopping hour every week, and let them go out and face the virus. If they contract it, this will save on medical bills and social security payments.
Open the economy: money is more important than humanity. If the United States dies in a swelter of fever and chills, let history write that the Fall of the American Empire was due to imbeciles who favored lack of manners, good health habits, and wanted a Hitler to lead them.
In case you missed it, there is an “empty space” in Trump’s head and mind.
As everyone in the nation rips off his face mask, the White House staff is putting them on. Gee, do they know something they are not telling the rest of us?
DATELINE: Sieg Heil!
Man in White!
If you like your political theories salacious and unpleasant, please read on:
We have learned that Ohio’s Rep. Jim Jordan, defender of Trump to the death (and he’s not even from New Hampshire where “Live Free or Die,” are the new coronavirus watchwords.
You may recall Here Comes Mr. Jordan,a dead man walking movie, and you may recall Jim Jordan, a dead man defending Trump on impeachment. Racists deny their racism may be his motto.
During that high time, Jordan refused to wear a suitcoat. He wanted to flaunt protocol and fashion shense. It made him look like a white-shirted KKK agent in Congress. He lacked on the hood. He is no knight in shining armor, but more like a night rider.
Now we hear that he is refusing to wear a protective mask in Congress. Since he is always a danger to infect other people with whatever virus he carries, this is blatant disregard for humanity. His disrespect knows only the bounds of genocide. He would kill you in a heartbeat if you are a Democrat, an oldster, a black person, or of any color he despises.
Now we hear speculation that he refuses to wear undies. Yes, beneath the surface is a naked ugly truth about Jim Jordan. He has no panties, women’s or otherwise.
Should we be alarmed that the emperor has no clothes or underclothes? It’s to be expected when you wear white robes and matching hood every night.
DATELINE: Deflated at Last
Tom Brady is taking his football and heading south.
You can blame the Patriots for not wanting to invest in a man who claims he has found the Fountain of Youth. We recall from history that another gentleman of the old school went to Florida on his quest: Ponce de Leon also thought the elixir of eternal and immortal life awaited him in the bays of Florida.
Bill Belichick now will show he is the genius by winning another Super Bowl without Brady. Heaven help him if his team tanks.
As for Brady, he is trading Paul Revere for Jean LaFitte. He is a trader of the first order, heading for the world of Disney and smart dolphins like Flipper.
If you wonder if he will be motivated, you never followed Deflategate, which sent him reeling into a new stratosphere.
Some never believed Belichick would let it go this far, but that parallel universe: In Bill We Trust, now is on confederate tender.
The all-seeing eye of money is looking back at the Patriot Place and finding that TB12 is a franchise that will sell more jerseys with a new logo.
As for Brady in New England, it was NEVER his home, and if you think he won for Boston, you are deluded. He happened to win while in the Greater Boston area. He would have been just as elated to win in Tampa Bay over the past 20 years.
He never spoke a bad word about Aaron Hernandez, and we figure he will give Belichick the same courtesy.
Now, the curiosity factor will follow him, eyes moving across the gridiron looking for a train wreck.
DATELINE: Finger of Choice?
In case you were wondering about Tom Brady leaving his “home” of 20 years, he told us: “I’m not the nostalgic type.” Goodbye, Gillette. And rotsa ruck.
The sound you heard is Jim Morrison singing “This is the End,” from a vandalized cemetery in Paris. The cacophony of noise is the Flying Elvis fallen from Graceland.
Tom Brady is gone.
We keep wondering how Boston sports media can twist this heartless slam into something not negative. We know fans are imbeciles and won’t see the insult, but you do have to recognize that the media birds eat the crumbs left by the management of the Patriots and the NFL. Bill Belichick has won: he will unload Brady and Krafty will let him. That kiss on the cheek is right out of the Judas Iscariot playbook.
They also have to make “friends” with those athletes who hate their guts to make it seem like it’s all a fun game. It isn’t. You hear it more nowadays: it’s a business.
And with that, Tom Brady basically told New England fans to go and shove it. He never was a Bostonian or a New Englander: this was the place he worked, and now that he may not work here any longer, he’s headed for a better place.
May he rest in peaceful retirement.
But we think he is returning to the circus of the West Coast where Hollywood is a leap-frog away—and his model wife can bask in the limelight with her billion dollars. He may finally earn enough in the next three or four years to buy the franchise of his dreams.
Tom Brady has no love for the Patriots anymore: the affair is over, and you likely can blame Belichick for making it a most unpleasant few years. Those six Super Bowl rings were never meant for New England. They are worn on his fingers—not yours.
He is leaving you only one finger. Pick-six indeed.
DATELINE: NBA Twits
File Under Inept Waiters!
Now and then we follow NBA nitwits on and off the court. We seldom follow Miami Heat anywhere, but when Dion Waiters criticized coach Spoelstra and ingested designer drugs making for a panic attack whilst flying with the team, we took notice.
He’s coming to Boston to play after a suspension worth a couple of million bucks. Maybe he can earn the money back by waiting on tables and receiving tips. We offer our tip right here.
Dion sang an apology to teammates and coaching brain-trust that sounds all the world like a statement from his agent/attorney axis. After all, fines and suspension took money and food out of their wallets and open mouths.
We know from the spellcheck that Dion Waiters never wrote that apology. Some low-paid minion earned his keep.
No one wants to provide real details about imbeciles, lest they be accused of discriminating against drug users and people with bad judgment. We are fearless in that regard.
When we meet a body walking through the rye, we know it’s a kind of Scottish whiskey on his breath.
We doubt that Waiters would be a winner on a team that contained players Bron, Wade, and Bosh. When you put a fly in the oinment, you mainly change the chemistry.
The rain in Spain does not always fall on the plain, no matter what apology/tune Dion sings, and we think as an ordinary waiter Waiters would spill our wry rye all over our spellcheck. Especially at 37,000 feet above the court at American Airlines Arena. It’s no slam dunk from outside the arc/ark.
NFL Lets Black Cat Suffer Indignity
Black cats have a long tradition of being associated with bad luck—and worse, curses from supernatural purveyors of magic.
So, when a black cat mysteriously started darting across the NFL game field in New Jersey when the Cowboys played the Giants, it became a focal point of attention. The game was secondary—and stopped.
Security guards, state police, and stadium staff would be hard-pressed to catch a cat, especially a black one just a few days after the Day of the Dead in Mexico.
You may well think this was an emissary from across the border to lay a comment on Trump’s immigration policy. Commentators at the game thought it was meant to put ill-fortune on the steps of the Cowboys.
The bewildered feline did not simply arrive like a UFO on the playing field. In one of the cruelest jokes of animal abuse, someone let the animal loose during the game.
This cat clearly had been smuggled into the game to create a moment of chaos on national television.
The unfortunate animal stopped running in one direction—and went in the other, looking for an escape while tens of thousands of fans made deafening noise.
You had a sense of why the public conducted the Salem Witch Trials in this microcosm of public fervor. You had a sense as to why sadistic practices involving black cats is commonplace even today.
The cat finally ran to a runway, as no one dared to pick him up or cart him off the field.
This was all thought to be in good fun, but we were in our satirical mode, less than charmed by the action and reaction.
No one has been charged with a crime, and no one may ever be held accountable. Someone’s pet cat was stolen, brought to a venue unfamiliar and released. It is another example of a mentality that is not funny and not kind.
We see that a TV graphic headline has been called “racist,” and we thought how terrible. Then, we saw what the offensive words were: They alluded to the Atlanta/Boston/Milwaukee Braves and the situation of losing a playoff berth. Now, we have for some time thought that naming teams after Native Americans—or, as racists call them, Indians, whether they are from Washington, D.C., Cleveland, or Boston (where the Braves originated) is dicey.
We were never sure what Indians they referred to in Boston. It could be that Braves are simply people with courage, though young Native American warriors were called Braves. It was sort of like ‘grunts” or “GIs” in another framework.
So, Indian and Redskin are harder to justify. If this seems like a hairy tale, you will be forewarned to avoid head-hunters.
Back to the point of the racist claim: it struck us as a play on humor and defeat. It is known that some brutal Indian raids resulted in “scalping” of victims. This was not necessarily an action limited to Native Americans but was a kind of trophy hunting.
To say the Braves were “scalped” seems rather oxymoronic. Who did the scalping? People who sell tickets to games outside a venue?
We seem to have entered a world in which words have either lost their meaning or have become metaphoric bonfires of the vanities.
If this full lobotomy assault continues on satiric wordsmiths, we shall soon be de-fanged, de-clawed, and shorn of our satirizing locks. In a crew cut mode, we may not again use Scalpicine on our collective itchy head. Sign language could also be offensive to Native Americans, to which we raise a well-placed finger in response.
DATELINE: New Trump Godfather Movie?
New Don Trump!
In a new Godfather sequel, Don Vito Trump makes an offer that a whistleblower cannot refuse. Yes, if the anonymous whistleblower reveals his identity, Russian mobsters will not only break his legs, he will be able to meet the man he accuses of criminal deals as he is fitted with cement overshoes.
If you ever wondered why whistleblowers are afraid, you have only to ask Fox journalists who liken them to “rotten snitches.” Yes, so much for the fair and balanced approach to someone reporting on corruption found in the Washington swamp.
Like calling his lawyer Michael Cohen, his mouthpiece of yore, a rat, Trump envisions the world in movie mob terms.
We now know that if you drain the swamp, you will find a slime-ball with orange hair lurking in the mud. The Creature from the Black Lagoon is now POTUS.
Don Trump does have a right to meet his accuser—in a court of impeachment in the United States Senate. And by then, it will be too late to have him executed—unless the Senate decides that Trump is really a king, not a president.
As of today, we have received another request from Trump to pay for his impeachment defense: his billions are not enough. Now the Don Trump is baking canolis filled with creamy poison for the American electorate.
We are not sure if the Don knows that this is not the Vatican where you can have the Pope replaced (as in Godfather 3). In this sequel, the mob plans to supply the voters with Ukrainian voting booths.
We have seen a preview of the film in which Don Trump’s grandchildren are dressed up like the Storm Troopers in the Star Wars series. In case you forgot, the Nazi Storm Troopers in white plastic suits were the bad guys who went against the forces of good.
In Trump’s world, life is like a box of chocolate movie sequels: all covered in Rambo Blood.
DATELINE: Kill Count Around 200?
Keanu with Anjelica.
We just had the pleasure of watching a film that is the epitome of political incorrectness in America after a half-dozen shootings in society. John Wick: Chapter Three Parabellum is a violent satire of gun use. At least, we think it is meant to be funny.
Para bellum is Latin for “prepare for war.” It is only one of several high-toned touches of art and culture in a brutal shoot’em up. We did not have our clicker with us, but we believe Wick kills over 150 people, one at a time. It causes the movie to run for a full two-hours and have credits that will feature keanu’s chef.
Keanu Reeves has now appeared in three of these sagas, his big money-making series. At 55 he is giving contemporary Tom Cruise a run for old age. We cannot imagine how he can run, jump, kill, and duck endlessly and never be out of breath. And, he is shot and stabbed on more than one occasions.
You know that Wick is dangerous when he kills an assassin in the New York Public Library—with a book. And then puts the bloody tome back on the shelf.
The film is a series of set pieces of mayhem. It seems everyone in the world is packing heat—and most of those are hired guns. No wonder we have shootings every week. It’s part of a movie fantasy world.
Among the high-brow stars is Anjelica Huston playing The Director, some kind of Russian oligarch balletomane who runs a dance company like she’s a female Diaghilev. Also on hand for chuckles is Ian McShane and Laurence Fishburne. Don’t worry about your stars being killed off: they will need to return for the fourth entry (yes, it is clearly coming).
In the meantime you can wonder about the brilliant choreography done by Reeves, and then there are outlandish set scenes like a swordfight on motorcycles.
We want to say the body count is quite high, but we think more panes of glass were broken than any other kind of vandalism. There isn’t a window in which someone does not put his head right through.
We also see plenty of blood splatter as heads are blown away with armor piercing bullets when a sword through the eyeball is not handy.
We haven’t seen this high a body count since Richard Burton and Clint Eastwood went Where Eagles Dare, killing Nazis.
DATELINE: Trump as Queen of Heartless
If you remember your literature, you know it was the queen of Hearts that constantly solved all royal court problems by shouting, “Off with their heads.”
It’s now the mantra of the Trump administration.
If you cross the President, he wants you fired. There’s nothing new in this as he made it his tagline on TV where he starred as a buffoon in an American business satire.
Now he has taken the royal pledge of vindication to new heights, or depths. He has now started to emulate the Queen of Hearts, sending out his Mad Hatter, Wilbur Ross, secretary of commerce, to threaten to fire weathermen for saying a hurricane is not imminent.
Imagine! You are fired for doing your job. “Off with their heads,” and their paychecks. It is nothing new under the rainy reign of Trump.
Thousands of Bahamians have lost everything in Hurricane Dorian that nearly missed Alabama, but Trump won’t give them aid or assistance. They have lost their passports, and now he wants their heads on a silver platter. Let them die in misery is his motto.
“Off with their heads,” we expect that slogan to echo through his campaign rallies to come. Political opponents? Off with their heads! Musicians wives? Off with their heads! Media journalists? Off with their heads.
We can hardly wait for the worm to turn, and have the Congress vote for impeachment while shouting, “Off with his head!” That would make us a wonderland of a banana republic, which seems to be Trump’s fondest wish.
DATELINE: Literate & Bloody Genghis?
Gold with Genghis?
Another superior French production marks the visit of three scientists on the search for the burial spot of the Mongolian leader known for his bloodthirsty strategies of wiping out populations.
The Lost Tomb of Genghis Khan is somewhere in the hinterlands of Mongolia but has been kept hidden by a cult of devout worshippers—even until today. Not one scintilla of evidence from the tomb has ever appeared since his burial in the mid-1200s.
It is thought he was buried with immense wealth in a desolate spot where his sons and grandsons also now are entombed, notably Kublai Khan.
No one is sure of the exact spot because the funeral cortege murdered anyone who saw it along route. They did not want anyone to know the great Khan was dead: it would undercut his divinity until he was safely buried.
So, even in death, his cut-throat, brutal tactics were in place.
Yet, Khan was also known as the first Mongol to codify laws and create a written language to solidify his people. Nothing like writing laws to ban murder while you cavalierly murder your way to top!
Genghis received more than bad press outside his homeland, but he was revered as someone special within.
By use of drones and mapping without touching the ground, three scientists risk their lives to go to the secret location. They travel through bogs and across rough terrain as tourist academics, never letting anyone know their real purpose.
Yet, when they return a year later, it is clear that the cult of worship has known of their appearance: the burial mountain has fresh totems in stone around the area. It makes for hair-raising research.
Rough editing seems to come out where commercial interruptions might happen, and there is one English-speaking American expert in Chicago offering his sage wisdom.
This is an intriguing hour of history.
DATELINE: Vimana Your Raft
Thor Mans Vimana!
This week Ancient Aliens went one better: they just blew Thor Heyerdahl out of the water. Yep, they claimed that Southeast Asians came to Colombia via vimana spaceships, not rafts.
By teaming up David Childress with Praveen Mohan, their new Hindu expert, sort of a Giorgio from Mumbai, you have some insights from 12,000 miles over the globe. The gold diggers of 3000 years ago worked for ancient alien “gods.”
Ancient Aliens starts off with a bang: blaming the Vatican and its auto de fe of the Inquisition for destroying the Mayan culture because it knew about visitors from the sky. In fact, they even go so far as to accuse the Vatican of still covering up the information stolen from the Mayan and taken to the Vatican archives where it still remains.
The other interesting bombshell has to do with the Hindi god from outer space whose name was, you guessed it: Maya. We see a similarity on History lately. You can blame it on two groups, it’s either the Masons or the Mayans.
Who knows? Maybe a future show will prove that the two groups share more than rituals and secret, lost knowledge.
It seems all those parallels between South America and India may have something to do with Vimana, the mythical spaceships of Indian legends and ancient texts.
Childress brings his Hindu counterpart to a remote area in the jungle of Colombia to show him the various statuary that resemble Hindi gods. It offers the theory that the South American location became a second city of Indian gods.
The newest cliché of TV documentaries is taking shots from above by drone: now you can see the topography of rivers and geoglyphs from the angle of ancient astronauts in their flying machines.
The Vatican now is catching up to the Masons as a suppressive group with secrets in their archives.
DATELINE: Not Music to Our Ears!
If you wonder about people in Havana being bombarded in the Embassy by mystery sound waves, or something else, you may have an answer in Mind Control: HAARP Conspiracy.
You may never want to hear about HAARP, or you think it is that real estate program to increase your mortgage. Wrong! It’s high density radio waves that can alter your brain—and it isn’t science fiction.
The disturbing Discordia comes from Mind Control: HAARP Conspiracy. A weak mind may be just as easy to disturb as a smart one.
The military has been working on it since the 1970s. They can bounce radio frequencies off the ionosphere, which can alter weather patterns on one level. Then, they realized you could target any kind of wave—certain music or radio stations, sending pulses to the audience to render them schizophrenic, frightened, or scatter people in an area.
Bio-effects are the newest weapon application, replacing bullets and bombs with a high-density shot of signals that can disrupt the brain. It is tantamount to the strobe light concept that has been used to pulsate people into madness.
If you can gear an audience to the sounds or lights, say Fox News, you can turn them into dribbling and violent automatons.
Needless to say, the CIA and NSA love this stuff.
Dr. Nick Begich, the expert who dominates the documentary, notes that United States citizens have been guinea pigs for years. But the true use is to make large armies turn coward and surrender without a fight.
We hate to harp on this, but our alphabet soup has just been poisoned by DARPA, HAARP, and now someone in the Pentagon has done something about the weather, sending tornados to Florida and other extreme climactic changes wherever they want from the base in Alaska.