satire

A Taste of Folly

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hoodoo headquarters

Outside of Hoodoo Headquarters

11: 10 a.m. Saturday 16 January 2016

As the sun arcs across the bluest of skies on this glorious Saturday of a three-day weekend, why squander my benevolent mood by overturning the rock of US politics and commenting on the spectacle of the scurrying vermin underneath?

Let’s not go into Trump and Cruz bouncing off the ropes of Thursday’s debate delivering forearms and leg kicks like Jessie Ventura and Nikolai Volkkoff.

Let’s not revisit the pairing of Lindsey Graham and Jeb! standing awkwardly abreast at yesterday’s endorsement like Muff and Jeff .

jeb and lindsey

photoshopped cartoon by WLM3

And what about this century’s remake of the 1972 Democratic contest with Hillary Clinton in the role of Edward Muskie and Bernie Sanders playing George McGovern?[1]

Enough! Already I feel dyspepsia roiling the previously pacific pools of my stomach acid.

No, I’m headed to the closet to don my pith helmet for another episode of “Hoodoo Anthropology.” Today, my adopted hometown Folly Beach celebrates its annual culinary extravaganza a “Taste of Folly, which I’ve never checked out, so I’m curious to see what type of crowd the festival attracts. You would think attendees might be a bit more subdued than the roisterers who descend for Folly Gras and Follypalloza, but frankly, I dunno.

What I do know is that the streets have been cordoned off, draught beer is flowing from sidewalk taps, and, of course, the chefs of Folly have taken extra care to present their signature dishes.

1:30 pm

Your intrepid reporter/anthropologist (IRA) and his spouse/assistant (SA) park their bikes at Chico Feo. Charlie, bartender extraordinaire, informs them that a bluegrass trio will be performing at 5, and that the owner/proprietor/chef (OPC) Hank Weed has set up a station offering a taste of Chico on the main drag that bisects this seaside community.

We cover the block to Center Street on foot.

IMG_2495

Over time, your IRA has developed mild anxiety when enmeshed in the amoeba-like pulsations of a crowd. SA Birdsong is hungry, a happy coincidence, but the lines for food are long along the bustling thoroughfare. As luck would have it, the queue for the Jack of Cup’s (JOC) curry is manageable, so the two split up; SA Birdsong procures two bowls while IRA goes inside the saloon to obtain a beer.

As sometimes happens in small villages, sitting right outside of the JOC are two friends, Larry and Jed, who offer an area of the table where SA and IRA can stand and enjoy the absolutely delicious combination of rice, potatoes, curry, peppers, etc.

curry.jpg

Jack of Cups Curry

Since Larry has been on site since “the crack of eleven,” he has procured a wristband that allows him to transport beers as a pedestrian.

wrist band

“Since when do you need a wristband to drink at a Folly festival?” IRA asks.

“It’s new this year,” Larry says. “It’s not too bad. Costs a buck. They make it efficient.”

“Maybe so, “ IRA thinks, “but here’s another instance of government complicating the lives of citizens.” He wonders where Cruz, Trump, and Bush might stand on the issue.  No doubt nanny staters Bernie and Hillary are all for it.

As IRA enjoys his beer, someone approaches him from the back and begins to tenderly massage his shoulders. Out loud IRA wonders who it might be — Emmylou Harris? Chrissie Hynde? Margo Timmins? Ambrosia Parsley?

No, it’s Vinnie Folly Beach’s most prolific songwriter.

vinny

Vinnie

“You know what,” Vinnie says, “I’m going to get drunk today.”

IRA: “You are?”

Vinnie [emphatically]: “Yes I am. You know why?”

IRA: “Nope.”

Vinnie: “Because I got drunk last night, and I can’t get over it.”

Two beers are long enough for IRA to determine that the visitors for a Taste of Folly are very much like the visitors to the other festivals. Bands play, like at any other festival. There’s a Jump Castle (JC) for the kiddies, like at any other festival.

Bottom line: the festival goers seem to be having a fairly good time.

3:41

SA and IRA arrive home safely via bikes. Decompression time before Chico Feo 5pm bluegrass trio.

[1] Dream tickets: Sanders and Sharpton vs. Cruz and Cotton in a “the-center-cannot-hold” contest.

Random Thoughts on This and That

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I hate it when columnists/bloggers go all ADD and cop out with slapdash hodgepodges entitled “This and That” or “Some Random Thoughts.” I see it as an abnegation of journalistic responsibility, a way to avoid the rigor of crafting a coherent piece on something of interest. How dare they take the primrose path when I’m bored and need intellectual stimulation!

CYdZHyuVAAAokvLThere’s so much out there that begs for thorough study. This week, for example, we have the death of David Bowie, whose passing has generated an enormous outpouring of almost unanimous praise. Sure, when Lou Reed checked out of this Motel 6 of Woe in October of 2013, his death generated a fair amount of interest, but compared to Bowie’s passing, the media response was like Joey Bishop’s dying versus Johnny Carson’s.

I would have never guessed Bowie enjoyed such widespread reverence. I’m not surprised that countercultural, leftwing naysaying card-carrying hedonists like I-and-I were drawn to his androgynous flamboyance/chameleon-like iterations of personae, not to mention to his music, an eclectic body of work that ranged from sunny pop to three-chord rock to apocalyptic ballads to funk to disco and finally atmospheric jazz.

But dig this, even NASA’s official Twitter account paid tribute: “And the stars look very different today.’ RIP David Bowie.”  Also, Conservative Prime Minister David Cameron: “I grew up listening to and watching the pop genius David Bowie. He was a master of re-invention, who kept getting it right. A huge loss.” Add to those worthies Chris Hadfield, the first Canadian to walk in space! [1]

What does this outpouring of love from the mainstream for the fellow pictured below say about our culture?

David_Bowie_-_Diamond_Dogs-front

One of you latterday de Tocquevilles needs to get off your lazy ass and get to work because I’m moving on to another story in the world of sports.

The following attention-grabbing first sentence comes from ace ESPN New England Patriots reporter Mike Reiss:

OXBOROUGH, Mass. — New England Patriots defensive end Chandler Jones had a bad reaction to a substance “that is not illegal” on Sunday, which led to him being admitted to a local hospital, sources tell ESPN.

Was it a really bad case of poison ivy, which, believe it or not, is legal in all 50 states?

Not exactly:

On Wednesday, citing a source familiar with the situation, the Boston Globe also reported that Jones did not overdose on a drug such as cocaine or heroin. The Globe reported that it was synthetic marijuana, which is not illegal in the state. Jones lives near the Foxborough police station, and he walked there to seek help after the bad reaction.

As it turns out, Jones and I share much in common. Not only did I not overdose on a drug such as cocaine or heroin on Sunday, but I also live so close to the police station in my community, I could walk there if I were to ever get a bad reaction from legal synthetic marijuana, but come to think of it, I’d probably opt to seek succor at a different venue.

Oh, yeah, and you’ve probably heard that filmmaker Jon Ritzheimer, undaunted by the poor review I gave to his previous movie, has just released yet another motion picture.

This one is an action flick in which the self-styled militiaman, one of the “ring leaders” of the occupation in Oregon, goes ballistic after receiving sex toys in care passages.

Frankly, I find his performance here much more riveting, more genuine.

Let’s just hope he’s not read this Twitter thread in which clever non-patriots mock the Bundy Boys with imaginings of what those lonely nights in the Oregon hinterlands must be like:

bundy5-660x330

 

Has anyone asked those patriots about Bowie’s passing? C’mon journalists, get the lead out. By the way, did you know Bowie’s real last name was Jones, just like the New England defensive end’s? And that “jones” is term that druggies use to describe an addiction?

[1] On the other hand, my prayers that I could find something positive Paul Ryan had to say about Bowie have been fruitless, nor have the Cruz, Bush, Huckabee, or Santorum campaigns responded to my emails asking them to comment on Bowie’s death.

A Little Attention Is a Dangerous Thing

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Editor’s Note: Sir Reginald Verbosoclast, whose opinions do not necessarily reflect those of You Do Hoodoo, is the author of today’s guest post.

Sir Reginald Verbosoclast

Sir Reginald Verbosoclast

A little attention is a dangerous thing, as Alexander Pope is reported to have remarked to Lord Petre after the latter allegedly snipped a lock of Arabella Fermor’s hair, an incident that famously led to the launching of a thousand ships in a demitasse (as anyone familiar with the Sparknotes summary of “The Rape of the Lock” is well aware).

Via non sequitur, take Jon Ritzheimer, one of the intrepid so-called “militia-folk” who in an act of brilliant performance art has mock-heroically taken over an abandoned federal building in rural Harney County, Oregon. Ritzheimer, whose name, by the way, is German for “cracked homeland,” began his theatrical career in his one-man ballet entitled, appropriately enough, “Fuck Islam,” an outdoor performance in which he marched back and forth in front of a Phoenix Islamic Community Center wearing a tee shirt emblazoned with those very provocative words.[1] The success of this one-man show led to a sequel called “Freedom of Speech Rally Round II,” a larger production hailed by Loonwatch.com as “the height of irony.”

Mr. Ritzheimer performing the storm scene from "King Lear"

Mr. Ritzheimer performing the storm scene from “King Lear”

Lately, Mr. Ritzheimer has transitioned into film, producing a series of one-man shows distributed by YouTube.   His most recent premiered four days ago, a satiric piece in which he mocks contemporary American sentimentality. The 13-minute monologue begins with Ritzheimer’s alter ego fighting back tears as he declares his love for his wife and daughters, an obvious parody of that stale trope developed by Phil Donahue and seen countless times on celebrity interview shows like Oprah and Ellen. He then launches an epic catalogue of paradoxes castigating as tyrannical a government that allows him not only to march in front of a mosque wearing the aforementioned tee shirt, but also legally to amass a small personal armory.

Although the film is well photographed from the dashboard of his vehicle, Mr. Ritzheimer’s performance is, well, in this critic’s opinion, wooden. It lacks, in a word, verisimilitude. In other words, you can tell he is an actor playing a role. Nevertheless, Mr. Ritzheimer is obviously a very talented and charismatic performer whom I dare say we haven’t seen the last of.

Believe me, I know. There’s nothing more addictive than amassing YouTube views.

 

[1] For the sake of clarity, Mr. Ritzheimer, not the community center, was wearing the tee shirt. Ed.

That Was the Year That Was

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One of the many Mongolians who didn't click on this site in 2014

One of the many Mongolians who didn’t click on this site in 2015

Thanks to all of ya’ll who clicked on the blog this year, which received 20.022 hits by visitors from 110 countries. I’d like especially to thank those solo souls in Lithuania, Guadeloupe, Liechtenstein, Ethiopia, the Isle of Man, Libya, Congo-Kinshasa, not to mention whoever it was in Papua New Guinea looking for porn who got sidetracked in Hoodooland.

Of course, several countries were no-shows, including predictable sourpusses like North Korea, Mongolia, and Greenland, but come on, Botswana, Paraguay, and Fiji, where’s your sense of adventure?

Happily, except for a death-haunted January that featured a stem cell transplant, 2015 was a big improvement over 2014, so I thought I’d offer a reprise of some of the most popular posts.

January

Although “Endangered Lowcountry SC Locutions,” featuring my mother and written exactly a week before my her death, was by far January’s the most popular post, I prefer “Super Bowl XLIX Preview,” which I could easily update this year by merely dropping those clunky Roman Numerals designating forty-nine for the sleek – dare I call them Arabic – numerals 5 and 0.

February

20140511_inq_jriordan11-bOne of the top news stories in February was an outbreak of measles at Disney World, which brought to light that luddites on both the far right and far left are not vaccinating their replicated DNA, so I produced this piece “Natural Selection at Work” that features not only a vintage photo of smiling polio victims but also a full color photo of an autistic dog.

February also brought us the Brian Williams scandal, which sent me into true confession mode. Dear Readers, believe it or not, I’m no stranger to “misremembering,” as the self-explanatory title “My Most Cherished Mismemory Debunked” testifies.

 

March

March came in like a lion with a very popular post, “Ten Literary Riddles.” If you don’t want to see the answers, don’t scroll down past number 10.”

April

granda-and-ted2What better way to celebrate a month dedicated to fools than a post entitled “A Brief Analysis of the Likability of 2016 Presidential Candidates,” which is so fair and balanced that Larry Sally, my most ardently Republican friend, says he more or less agrees with it.

I also caught Dylan in concert for the only-god-knows-how-manyeth-time, and “Review of Bob Dylan Concert 17 April 2015” got a ton of hits.

May

governor-watching-tvMay brought the news that Texas’s wheelchair bound governor was preparing the state for an invasion from the US Federal government, and I realized what a great movie it would make, hence, “The Invasion of Texas – Coming to a Theater Near You Soon!”

Like Donald Trump, I ain’t no fan of political correctness, as this piece “Political Correctness Academy” demonstrates.

 

June

Folly Beach, my adopted home barrier island, is a frequent subject, and this piece “Folly Beach’s Cat Lady, Potential Serial Killer” still generates some traffic on the site.

Also, in June, I got my hands on the uncorrected proofs of “Elijah’s Wald’s ‘Dylan Goes Electric,’” which was picked up by the mega Dylan website “Expecting Rain: Bob Dylan.” Wald himself weighs in with a comment on the post.

Alas, June also brought us the Charleston Massacre, and this post “Way Past Time” struck a chord.

I also finally got to go to a Jewish wedding: “My First Jewish Wedding.”

July

A lazy month that featured video of a hotdog eating contest (“Celebrating the 4th on Folly after the Alcohol Ban”), a paean to drive-in movies (“Enjoying Genocide at the Drive-in“), and more spoiled elite college student bashing (“America’s Culture of Hyperachievemnt among the Affluent).

August

donald-trump-750x455Oh my God, where has the summer gone? Life is short. I’ll be dead in no time. Better turn to the Good Book. And who better to lead a Bible lesson than the Donald: “Bible Study with Donald Trump.”

September

Here’s a poem: “What Guilt Feels Like: A Series of Pickpocketed Similes,” an exercise in collage.

And a behind-the-scenes peek of my decadent lifestyle hanging out with beat poets at Chico Feo: “Folly Beach Life, Ain’t the Good Life, But It’s My Life.”

kaye-paulAnd I’m surprised this post didn’t catch on, a “Casting the Republican Primary Farce,” in which I find photos of dead movie/tv starts who are – drumroll – dead ringers for the Republican candidates.

October

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang upon those bows that shake against the cold, what better time than to go all nostalgic: “That Time I Threatened to Hang Myself If Student Housing Didn’t Transfer me out of That Dorm Suite I Shared with Antithetical Monsters.”

November

Actually, not only do leaves not turn yellow where I live, they don’t even fall from the trees: “Whining on Thanksgiving.”

December

Which brings us to December, today, Christmas. I’ll give Santa the final word:

“Santa Agonistes.”

Naw, I get the final word. Thanks so much for reading. I sincerely appreciate it.

Quotes from Curmudgeons

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Original Caption: W.C. Fields in typical poker face pose. Undated photograph.

Original Caption: W.C. Fields in typical poker face pose. Undated photograph.

No doubt most curmudgeons begin their careers as a high school cynics, as smart-mouthed skeptics equipped with highly sensitive antennae tuned to hypocrisy. More often male than female, these snarling scoffers tend to mock propagandists dedicated to transforming them into productive contributors to society.

Burned as idealistic children who naively believed the blandishments of their elders, they eventually begin to realize that life’s rewards and punishments can be ridiculously unjust. For example, even though Bobby copies his homework and bullies smaller kids, Santa showers him with $800 skateboards and brand name clothing; meanwhile, the rule-obeying future curmudgeon treats others kindly but ends up with a can of Play Dough and a Wal-Mart fleece.

“Yeah right,” becomes the sardonic rejoinder to uplifting quotes in the morning announcements.

But let’s face it: constant negativity is not one of Dale Carnegie’s strategies in the pursuit of winning friends and influencing people. Although the most talented high school cynics can be fairly entertaining, their shtick can get really, really old after a while.

Eventually, though, with a little luck – a good marriage helps — these young cynics can marinate over the decades into well-seasoned curmudgeons who cultivate a sense of absurdity’s humorous possibilities, rather than becoming outraged at the human tragicomedy. Life becomes not a “tale/ Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury/Signifying nothing” but a “spiritual pickle preserving the body from decay.”

So on this Thanksgiving Eve, I choose not to mock my Facebook brethren for typing “adorable” beneath photos of non-photogenic babies; I choose not to mock sentimentalists for cajoling me to like and share cloying idiocies like “if you ‘heart’ your mother click like and share.”

No, instead, I’ll share, these inspiring quotes from some of my favorite curmudgeons for whom I’m especially thankful. They, by my book, truly have made the world a better place.

Jonathan Swift: “Last week I saw a woman flayed, and you will hardly believe how much it altered her person for the worse.”

Mark Twain: “Go to Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company.”

Amboise Bierce: “OBLIVION, n. Fame’s eternal dumping ground. Cold storage for high hopes. A dormitory without an alarm clock.”

Oscar Wilde: “A gentleman is one who never hurts anyone’s feelings unintentionally.”

HL Mencken: “Democracy is a pathetic belief in the collective wisdom of individual ignorance.”

Dorothy Parker: “If all the girls who attended the Yale prom were laid end to end, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

WC Fields: “Start every day off with a smile and get it over with.”

Groucho-Marx-Duck-Soup-e1434598275998Groucho Marx: “Military justice is to justice what military music is to music.”

Lenny Bruce: “I won’t say ours was a tough school, but we had our own coroner. We used to write essays like: What I’m going to be if I grow up.”

Kurt Vonnegut: “True terror is to wake up one morning and discover that your high school class is running the country.”

But when it all comes down to it:

TC Boyle: “I was in the water for six hours. Shivering, praying, scared full of adrenaline. I kept making deals with the Fates, with God, Neptune, whoever, thinking I’d trade places with anybody anywhere – lepers, untouchables, political prisoners, Idi Amin’s wives – anything, so long as I’d be alive.”

Be thankful!

Memo to Jeb: Tips on Killing Baby Hitler

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baby hitlerFirst of all, killing Embryo Hitler is verboten. It’s absolutely necessary that Mother Hitler has birthed Baby Hitler before you kill him because, as you have often noted, abortion is an abomination.

Warning: Baby Hitler is not going to be sporting that signature mustache or that off-putting hairstyle. In other words, he’s going to appear to be a sweet, innocent bundle of joy. I dare say that you won’t be able to identify him as Austrian much less as the future architect of the Holocaust. The bottom line is that killing Baby Hitler is going to be sort of like putting a pit bull puppy to death. Unless you’re a sadist, what you’re about to do is going to be very unpleasant.

I suggest offing the would-be Fuhrer shortly after his birth because newborns, despite the “beautifuls” and “adorables” you see next to their images on Facebook posts, tend to be wizened little squirming red-faced creatures that resemble very old people, whom we associate with death anyway, which makes slaying a newborn a tad bit easier, psychologically speaking, than dispatching a two-week old.

No matter the age, before ending his life, make sure to clad Baby Hitler in a miniature Nazi romper complete with swastikas. Believe me, you don’t want him sporting anything emblazoned with bunny rabbits.

Of course, the paramount question is how. Even though gassing him or strapping him in a miniature electric chair is neither cruel nor unusual given that it has been a state-sanctioned means of dispensing with our capital criminals, those methods strike us as excessive.

I suggest perhaps applying a lethal dose of cyanide to his pacifier, which again I suggest be in the form of a swastika.

But ultimately, Jeb, it’s your call.

At any rate, good luck, and God bless help the United States of America!

Casting the Republican Primary Farce

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corey van dyke hamletYears ago, circa The Hog Breeders’ Gazette, back in his Mozart spinning DJ days at SC Public Radio, Robert Fowler and I cast an entire production of Hamlet using comedy stars from early television — Dick Van Dyke as the Prince, Professor Irwin Corey as Polonius, Bill Dana as the grave digging clown, etc.

Let me assure you, if you had been there (and had spent the earlier part of the day as we had), you would have found our casting howlingly hilarious. We even considered creating a Play Bill like poster, an artsy mixed media something or other that could showcase the shtick, but back then, to create art, you had to be able to draw, to know how to develop photos in darkrooms. Now, praise Huxley, if you can afford an Apple laptop and a Photoshop license, art is much more egalitarian, its modes of production not so tilted in favor of talent and technique.

Yes, happily for me, the days of talent have faded like those old photos developed in dark rooms, and hacks like I-and-I can manifest multimedia fairly easily, spit out poems, songs, digital art, manifestos, or homemade Mother’s Day cards.

This morning, for example, after reading a sardonic email from a friend mocking Jeb’s musings on multiculturalism, it occurred to me that if I were casting a farcical movie mocking the Republican presidential campaign, I’d want Peter Sellers to play Jeb (the smart) Bush.

Imagine Sellers in the role, hunching his shoulders, assuming Bush’s ursine posture. Imagine with his genius for mimicry, his ability to make incarnate misstatement via misstep, Sellers’ executing a low energy pratfall.

Well, one thing led to another, and I started thinking about the other candidates. Fiorina, Cruz, Paul, Trump. What comic would best be able to portray them in this screwball comedy?

Who should play whom?

The problem we face at this early stage is that we don’t know who the protagonist will be. Nevertheless, we know Trump will play a leading role, so let’s cast him first.

Donald Trump

I’d go with Jerry Van Dyke, Dick’s venerable brother.

Van Dyke/Trump

Van Dyke/Trump

Let’s face it, we don’t need an Olivier to play the Donald.  We’re talking Borscht Belt slapstick skit television shit.  If he were’t dead  84, Jerry could desitively handle it. Anyone who has seen even one episode of My Mother the Car can vouch for that. All the director would need to do is to get the appropriate wig from wardrobe, have Jerry learn how to pinch his mouth into an anus-like circle, and bluster.

 

Carly Fiorina

Arthur/Fiorina

Arthur/Fiorina

 

Who better than Bea Arthur to play Carly Fiorina?  When you think about it, both have a lot in common — two eyes, two ears, two nostrils, two husbands.  The former a champion for civil rights for women, the latter a campion for civil rights for herself.

 

 

 

Marco Rubio

Newton/Rubio

Newton/Rubio

 

If the lights are bright enough and he starts sweating, Wayne Newton looks a helluva lot like Marco Rubio.  Or vice versa.  Come to think of it, Rubio might think about approximating Wayne’s coif, Richie Valens-meets-Ronald Reagan.

 

 

Ted Cruz

Al Lewis/Cruz

Al Lewis/Cruz

 

I’ve said this before — and now it’s become a sort of internet meme – but damn, Ted Cruz is a dead ringer for Grandpa Munster.  If only Ted could muster a little of bit of Grandpa’s charisma, he might have a chance.

 

 

Chris Christie

christie /fleason

 

 

If he could have put on, say, a hundred pounds or so, Jackie Gleason would have made a killer Christie.

 

 

 

Rand Paul

 

Kaye/Paul

Kaye/Paul

 

 

 

Who better to capture that hard-to-pin-down-elfin quality that Paul exudes than Danny Kaye?

 

 

 

 

Scott Walker

Skeleton/Walker

Skeleton/Walker

 

 

 

And finally, the great Red Skeleton as the late lamented Scott Walker.  As they say, two pictures are worth two thousand words.

Happy Holidays from The Moores – It’s Been a Great 2002!

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With all of my students gone on field trips, I sat around today deleting antiquated files and ran across this blast from the past, our annual “corporate” “Holiday letter” from 2002:

Oh my, how the years do fly. It seems just yesterday that our boys were in the Lower School waiting patiently in line at their prestigious prep school to have their hair checked for head lice, and suddenly, in a blink of an eye, here they are each old enough to have wrecked one of our late model Volvos. And, yes, we realize it’s been five years since we’ve shared our great good fortune with you, but building a beautiful new riverfront house, searching for a college prestigious enough for our first born, and traveling back and forth to Ireland have been time consuming endeavors. Nevertheless, we can no longer ignore the clamorous heartfelt supplications to allow you to at least peek into our rich, meaningful lives. So back, by popular demand, here is the Moore Family Christmas Letter, v. 2002.

Ned is a junior at Porter-Gaud School (founded 1867, tuition $11,432 per annum) and has been active in several extracurricular activities such as the Friday Detention Club and the Salvation Army Shopping Society. There is, of course, a lot of peer pressure at Porter-Gaud, especially to make high grades. So many students there spend an inordinate amount of time paying attention in class and studying for tests. Ned, blessed with artistic genius, refuses to run with the herd. You won’t find Van Gogh, Einstein, or Faulkner’s names on any faculty lists or honor rolls either.   We expect great things from Ned, and we’ll keep you posted of any future awards he garners.

According to both emails we’ve gotten from Harrison, he’s flourishing at Georgetown University (founded 1789, tuition $39,500 per annum). Given Harrison’s lifelong dream of working for the South Carolina Democratic Party, Georgetown seems an apt choice given its impressive Center for Cervantes Studies.   Plus, Harrison will be right there in Washington learning the ropes from master politicians such as Trent Lott and Walter Mondale. We couldn’t be prouder of him. Walter Mondale, that is.

Judy’s broken a personal record for consecutive years at the same school: 2.   Admittedly, she sometimes gets frustrated with the Napoleonic administrators and Kafkaesque bureaucracy she deals with unrelentingly on a daily basis, but just last night she told me that working for Charleston County Schools was like being a character in a Beckett play that just won’t end. In other words, she’s leading an award-winning dramatic working life. You go, girl!

Unfortunately, Wesley is having trouble finding a publisher for his latest manuscript, The Lighter Side of 9/11; nevertheless, he’s already at work on a new project, a coffee table book he plans to self-publish entitled The Picturesque Bars of Folly Beach, South Carolina. Of course, researching the project takes him away from home and into the field nightly, but Ned and Judy seem to be weathering his absences remarkably well. In fact, they encourage him to be as gone as long as needed. Sometimes, it’s almost as if they’ve forgotten that he’s not there, because it’s not unusual for them absentmindedly to lock him out of the house.

We’d like to close by assuring the petit bourgeois who apologize for cataloging their mundane triumphs in impersonal solstice letters such as this one that it’s okay. Hey, it’s not your fault that you have a somewhat of a life and can’t find the time to “hand craft” messages to personal friends. We understand.

All that we ask is that you never drop in without calling first.

Wishing you the Happiest of Holidays,

The Moores

Xmas 2002 - seems like yesterday [sob]

Xmas 2002 – seems like yesterday [sob]

Bible Study with Donald Trump

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donald-trump-750x455Hey, I’m an author. Did you know I was an author? Well, I am, and I’ve written the second greatest book out there, The Art of the Deal. If you haven’t read the book, you need to grab a copy because it’s tremendous; there’s a tremendous amount of wisdom in that book, but you know what, there’s even a better book out there, and that’s the Bible. Nothing beats the Bible. It’s my favorite book. And this might surprise you, but the Bible is an excellent textbook when it comes to showing you how to make a deal. Let me tell you, the God of Hosts was no slouch when it came to making a deal.

Ever heard the story of Dinah and Shechem? You can find it in the 34th Genesis. Now this is the kind of story they skip over in Sunday school because it’s not politically correct, but you know what? I’m sick of political correctness. I’m going to share this neglected story with you because it’s one of the greatest deals ever made in the history of the world.

Okay, Dinah’s the daughter of Jacob and Leah, and on her way to visit some women, Hamar’s son Shechem sees her, finds her attractive, and rapes her. Now, I’m against rape because I love women. I cherish them. Unless they’re whores like Jezebel or bitches like Noah’s wife or pigs like Roseanne Barr. Anyway, that’s not the norm. Most women are wonderful, and anyway, rape’s a terrible thing.

But get this. This rapist Shechem falls in love with this Dinah, the babe he’s raped, and his old man Hamar approaches Jacob with a deal. I’ll go ahead and quote from the Contemporary English Version. It’s much better. None of those thees and thous and smiteths and all those archaic words that irritate the hell out of you. You agree, right? Of course, you do. Archaic words have no place in the modern world. Anyway, here’s the scoop: Here’s what Hamor says to Jacob:

My son Shechem really loves Dinah. Please let him marry her. Why don’t you start letting your families marry into our families and ours marry into yours? You can share this land with us. Move freely about until you find the property you want; then buy it and settle down here.

Shechem’s right there with his old man. The gall of these people, asking favors from the father of a daughter you’ve just raped. It’s terrible. Even Bill Clinton wouldn’t do something like that. Anyway, Shechem adds, ““Do this favor for me, and I’ll give whatever you want,  anything, no matter how expensive. I’ll do anything, just let me marry Dinah.”

Okay, guys, if you’re ever trying to make a deal, never say you’ll do anything. Makes you look weak. It’s pathetic. You gonna get took. Just watch and see. Here’s what Jacob’s sons say:

You’re not circumcised. It would be a disgrace for us to let you marry Dinah now. But we will let you marry her, if you and the other men in your tribe get circumcised. Then your families can marry into ours, and ours can marry into yours, and we can live together like one nation.  But if you don’t agree to get circumcised, we’ll take Dinah and leave this place.

Well, Hamor and Shechem swallow the bait hook, line, and sinker. They decide to talk all the men of the tribe in getting circumcised so they all can intermarry with the Israelites, thinking they could get access to their crops and flocks, to create a merger so to speak.

But here how it goes down. Again, I’ll let Moses do the talking.

Three days later the men who had been circumcised were still weak from pain. So Simeon and Levi, two of Dinah’s brothers, attacked with their swords and killed every man in town, including Hamor and Shechem. Then they took Dinah and left.  Jacob’s other sons came and took everything they wanted. All this was done because of the horrible thing that had happened to their sister. They took sheep, goats, donkeys, and everything else that was in the town or the fields.  After taking everything of value from the houses, they dragged away the wives and children of their victims.

Now that’s what I call one great deal. Not a lousy 50/50 proposition. Not an eye for an eye, but a village complete with farms and widows and slave children for a hymen. Like I say, I’m not for rape, but you have to admit the compensation for this deal was out-of-sight.  Maybe if we had some deal makers like Jacob’s sons in Washington we wouldn’t be getting taken to the cleaners by China and Mexico.  It’s a disgrace.

Okay, that’s it for today. I got to go out and make America great again.  But join me next week, and we’ll talk some more Bible. King Nebuchadnezzar. He was rich. Maybe not as rich as me but rich. I’ll talk all about him next time.

Simeon Levi

Offing People from Off, Donald Trump Style

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Your Modest Author

Your Modest Author

What the success of Donald Trump’s presidential candidacy has eloquently demonstrated is that Americans crave simple, no nonsense solutions to our problems.

Take his plan to cleanse the country of the infestation of illegals, those predatory, pick-pocketing, often pregnant, anchor-casting Mexicans slipping through that porous sieve of a shitty excuse of a wall that fails to protect us from their nefarious plots to mow our lawns and frame our houses.

As soon as their pregnistas start dilating, they dog paddle across the Rio Grande, and the next thing you know, they’ve given birth to a US citizen, who eventually ends up hogging space in an emergency room, getting sewn up after his gangland knife fight, all on Uncle Sam’s dime.

Not to mention that once they’re established, they vote for the Democrat party.

Certainly, a country that has put men on the moon can set up a system to identify criminals who have entered our country illegally and deport all 11 million of them.

Although Candidate Trump hasn’t exactly worked out the details, he’s smart, rich, and successful, so don’t be surprised if for PR purposes he opts for Greyhounds instead of boxcars.

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All of this has gotten me to thinking about similar problems we face in coastal South Carolina. Nowadays, getting a parking space in downtown Charleston within a mile of your desired destination is as unlikely as drawing a royal straight flush.

As I inch my way homeward each afternoon down Folly Road, like a blood cell squeezing along a clogged artery, I’ve noticed a proliferation of license plates that don’t feature palmettos trees or crescent moons. Each day, more and more cars appear; new stop lights are popping up like mushrooms, all because of an unsustainable influx of outsiders.

No, these people impeding my progress aren’t foreigners in the multi-national sense, but the majority of them are not natives of South Carolina. They don’t sound like us, they don’t think like us, and they don’t pull for the Gamecocks or Clemson. In other words, they don’t belong here. They’re taking over, I tell you, and mark my words, as Bruce Springsteen once sang, “Soon everything we’ve known will all be swept away.”

Today the Confederate flag, tomorrow octoroon Klansmen. Don’t be surprised, fellow native South Carolinians, if your grandchildren say “you guys” instead of “y’all.”

Thanks to Donald Trump, I’ve come up with a plan to take back our South Carolina, i.e., rid the Palmetto State of people-from-off. I’ve sent a letter to my state representatives demanding that they introduce legislation to implement my two-step plan to restore South Carolina to its pre-influx purity. I promise you, fellow natives, getting a parking space downtown will not be a problem if this plan is implemented.

It has two parts. The first step, of course, is to secure our borders. I suggest we construct a massive combination of Hadrian’s Wall and a tollbooth that wraps around our pie-shaped state. Anyone entering the state will have to pay a hundred dollar toll. What about people flying in you ask? Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out. I’m very smart.

And, hey people, I’m getting Ohio to pay for the wall!

The second part is simply to invite non-natives to self-deport, and if they refuse, to utilize the National Guard to forcibly remove them.

Of course, this change will result in some short-term inconveniences (empty condo complexes, mass bankruptcies, the closing of the Air Force Base), but we eventually conquered Reconstruction, didn’t we? We need to take the long, not the short view. We’re talking about our way of life.

Sure, things might get a little lonely down here on the lane where I live. My next door neighbor Jim will have to go, and Bobby and Nina, also Claudia, who lives two houses down, and the Weimanns and their two beautiful daughters, and of course, Chico Feo will have to close, and the Jack of Cups.

Oh yeah, and my wife, Judy Birdsong, she was born in Georgia.

That leaves me, and only me.

Come to think of it, xenophobia might not be such a great idea in a nation of immigrants.