Bernie Ecclestone. Salt of the earth.

He just might be the biggest asshole in the world.

My sister, if she ever talks to me again (unlikely), will back me up on everything in this post. Truth and nothing but.

We were white privilege and didn’t know it. No oodles of cash in our treasure chests. We knew rich people who lived just down the road a ways. Funny though. We never cared. Never thought about it. Because we were white and privileged somehow, I guess.

Let me repeat myself. We never thought about it. My parents went out for dinner, to parties, they were popular, because they were good looking and white and privileged. Or something like that. Which meant that my sister and I had to be looked after by babysitters. A whole bunch of babysitters.

Not kidding. There was Reba, and Lillian, and Jackie, and Pizzi, and Priscilla, and Emma, and Mrs. Cole, my cousin Ann, my grandparents on both sides, because we had grandparents on both sides. Today, though, we’re not concerned with the extended family.

There’s always good and bad. On that you can count. Reba was bad. Not that she was evil in any way. She was sad. And we could see it even at our tender age. Her idea of babysitting us was ironing. She ironed all the sheets and everything white she could find. She had gray hair and a bony face. She was a Moor. Most of you don’t know what that means. We here in South Jersey know. Because our babysitters tell us. They’re not white. They’re not black. They’re something in between. And you can see it in their faces. Like they’re Native Americans but not. Cheekbones, sharp eyes, and unlike Indians, not drunk all the time.

Reba was sad. She ignored us altogether. There was ironing to do. And she walked like the Frankenstein monster, arms outstretched, hands hanging limply from her wrists. We used to do impressions of her walking like that, my sister and me. Reba. We had nothing against her. But she was not Lillian.

Lillian was also a Moor. Very very Native American looking. And THE coolest broad on earth. She was an outcast in the Moor community. She married Oliver, a black man. We liked him but he was a quiet man. Lillian was anything but quiet. She never made us go to bed at bedtime. She taught us how to play all the card games, gin rummy, 500 rummy, and poker, meaning both five card and seven card draw. She had a friend named Rosa, who was a total bitch, and she came and played cards with us, and Lillian kept winking at us about what a bitch Rosa was. She treated my sister and me like grown-ups. Can you imagine that?

I think Lillian was one of those Hopi witch doctors, sent by the Spirit Father to raise us right. We had more fun than you could possibly imagine.

She had a 1955 Chevrolet. Now they go for $20 to $30 thousand dollars. She let me drive it around our driveway when I was nine.

She smoked. I’d come back and give her the car keys, and she’d move the cig to the side of her mouth with her eyes all crinkled into slits, just laughing and laughing.

So my sis and I were white privileged racists, weren’t we?

And we’ve barely started. Next up, the Puerto Rican slut Jackie of the purple fingernails, the dark dark darkie Emma, who was the first person I ever prayed for, on my knees, and Mrs. Cole, shown up top.

An unbelievably cold woman. They lived in a house only Edward Hopper could have painted, in charcoal, black and white. I was in that house. She was made completely of bone. Two sons. Both with black and white shirts buttoned up to the chin. Her husband was laid off and drunk. She could iron but not as well as Reba. She never spoke to us at all.

Lived 500 yards away from us. Why she was the babysitter of last resort. Now I’m depressed. I’ll tell you more later.

Not my hero. But a hero nonetheless.

Years ago, went to the battleground of Chancellorsville. Stumbled through the woods where they fought, blindly, no visibility, no nothing but fear and dread and blood.

I was never a Confederate sympathizer. My people came from the county in Ohio that spawned both Grant and Sherman. Grew up with others from border states. One of my friends was the great grandson of the Vice President of the Confederacy. Heard it all, over and over and over (and over) again. The monsters named Sherman and Grant who burned and slaughtered the south. Never bought into it at all. The South got what it deserved.

But I saw the house where Stonewall died.

And the bed he died in.

And his tombstone. Killed by one of his own.

And his last words.

“Let us cross over the river and rest in the shade of the trees.”

So I was there. I looked through the window of his death. I am of the Grant and Sherman tribe. But Stonewall was an American too. Which I will never forget.

Big Spoiler for Punk City fans. This video is of Johnny Dodge & the 440s.

Little Zuck boy told me to delete my nude posts. Like I care what a worthless Harvard boy thinks about my taste in nudes.

He got all pissy about this. Meaning he pissed himself.

Far as they got. I pointed out that the in the case of the English, the carpet NEVER matches the drapes. Shocking stuff. Nobody’s ever seen pubic hair on a mature female, eh?

Now I’ve been ordered to remove all nudity from my site or face being shut down.

How can I put this politely, Zuckerberg. I went to Harvard when it was still Harvard and not a billionaire boy’s club. Go fuck yourself. I don’t need you or Facebook. Not now. Not ever.

She be shakin’ that giant boooooty. “She was black..”

She be the One.

Hillary had one achievement. Pushed another girl baby out the hole. What passes as accomplishment for women. Given the no Shakespeare, Blake, Einstein, Newton, Mozart, Bach, or anything else worthwhile.

Or not.

She was hot. She was black. She was not Hillary.

Honestly. Didn’t know he was still alive. Or care.

Then he insisted on trying to resuscitate the 1968 Dem Convention. Lots of crap in the air back then too. Class act. Those days. Anybody ever tell you how the sixties smelled. Like human poop. S’truth.

Now I know why. Why I hated it. Not for the fly buzzing whine. But for the content.

Go for it. You clowns. “The last shall be first.” Matthew 22:16.

Guess that would be you, Zincavage. Step right up. Many are called. Few should ever be chosen.

I was a former federal prosecutor even then, 10 years ago.

Breitbart says, though Snopes/Soros has not yet debunked, that Megyn falsely accused Roger Ailes of molesting her a decade ago. Why she hung around and made a multimillion dollar career at Fox News.

They always said she went to SUNY Albany. But when you start making accusations, other things tend to come out. In truth, Megyn Kelly got her law degree at night while working as a stripper during the day. Her real alma mater? University of North Troy.

University of North Troy.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=-sUXMzkh-jI

Kind of like AC/DC. 100 percent cool, 0 percent intellect. But it worked for them. (Except for Bon Scott.) Maybe it will work for us. If we’re not named Bon Scott.

They live, they die. Like all of us.

NBC anchors furious about events at Socialigistical Convention.

Very very here, people. The GLM (Greyhound Lives Matter) thugs have invaded the Socialigistical (Sighthounds who Can Spell “Ligistical”) Convention.

Fortunately, we have Mike Wallace who has the latest technology on the convention floor to tell us what the hell is going on.

As far as we can tell, Chet, it’s Sarah Palin’s fault. She showed up outside the security barriers and now all heck is breaking loose. I’ll report more fully after I finish my dinner in the incredibly opulent Clever Ritz Hotel. [grin]

The media are doing their best to tampon down the waters.

The convention in Clever.

What do you think, Chet? I never think, David.

What?

Never? That’s right, David. I’m too important to think.

What?

Chet, it begins to look like the GLM forces are contending with the Clever police. Some violence, it would seem, is unfolding.

GLM supporters are bringing AR-15s to their protest.

Very likely, David. Why don’t we take this opportunity to check in with our two highly educated pundits, Algore Vidal and William F. Bugley.

You little queer. I’ll smash your pansy face to a pulp.

We’ll get back to Algore and the Bugley person later, David, but what’s happening in the streets of Clever?

What?

Oh. Chet. I was on the wire with my, uh, source on the streets. She’s, er, they say business is bad. Lots of men, too few johns, er, law abiding citizens.

You £€%#>#{#¥!!!

That looks bad, David. Maybe we could get some perspective from the eminent author Algore Vidal and the Bugley person…

…”then I’m going to cram your faggot balls all the way up to your..

I guess there’s at least a possibility something is happening on the convention floor. Mike? What say you?

As far as we can tell, Chet, it’s Sarah Palin’s fault. She showed up outside the security barriers and now all heck is breaking loose. I’ll report more fully after I finish my dinner in the incredibly opulent Clever Hotel. [grin]

In that case, Chet, let’s look at what the candidates are doing. My, er, sources tell me the two combatants in this horrifically violent confrontation are presently locked in heated talks to arrive at a compromise candidate. Some say it’s this one.

The GLM fallback.

Others say it’s this one.

Graphics copyright by Deerhounds of North America.

Really, Chet?

What?

Breaking… The candidates are hopelessly at odds. They’re even snarling about snacks at the conference table. One of our NBC photographers managed to snap this photo of them going toe to toe the same way the protesters and police are doing it in the street.

Word is, they’re locked in negotiations to end the violence.

That looks very serious, David.

What?

BREAKING… Mike Wallace has finished dinner and gotten laid…. More to come

BREAKING… the convention confrontation has been resolved. Both parties have agreed on a compromise candidate all Sighthounds can, and would actually like to, make that love to, live with.

Mommy. Everyone loves mommies. Except faggot progressives.

Good night, Chet. Good night David.

It’s all about the homosexual designers. Men in general don’t care about boobs at all. Just sacs of fat with a big button on top. More utilitarian than anything else. A roundish milk machine.

Babies like boobs. Why women think everyone does. And want the gay designers to help them sell it.

Women think we care. They want us to care. Why most of them parade the Downboob look.

Boring, right?

Why they had to invent the Sideboob look.

Interesting but lacking somehow.

Which led eventually to the Underboob.

Seems to come up short.

Even when multiplied.

Women want us to look. Why don’t we want to?

Then there’s the Wholeboob concept.

Better I’m thinking. If they worked on this look some more, we might show more interest. You with me?

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=vt1Pwfnh5pc

Yeah. They, like, really, like, hate themselves.

It’s not even enough to have a corduroy jacket, a Robert Hall tie, and a face that has stopped clocks all over the bicoastal capital of the world.

I studied something at the New School. I love me some Obama, mkay?

He shows up from nowhere and tells us how to write correct English.

Forget his grammar lesson. He went to Florida Technological Seminary and majored in seducing incoming chess club recruits. What he knows about language and literary usage would fit in a teacup. Oh. Jane Austin and George Orwell used relaxed versions of gender-neutral pronouns. Not because they ever wrote colloquial dialogue, but because they were all auditioning for the Baltimore Sun. Yet colloquial is not correct, and a white suit does not a priest make.

So. Who is this guy? Down to the real serious questions here. I’m thinking he’s a CGI character like Max Headroom. Not really there. Just a head position and a camera perspective.

Like me. Only I am in on the game.

Watch the amalgam of two pompous jerks with white hair and hubris galore.

http://i70.photobucket.com/albums/i82/McBuff/Hugh-phil.gif

I’ve got more. But I’ll let this one sink in for now. Let me know if you want more.

Because there had to be.

Orwell looked 35 years out. From 1949 to 1984. And, obviously, beyond. I looked at least 25 years out, to where we are today. And beyond.

If you want proof, it’s easy to find. In six books of The Boomer Bible. The primer version.

The Book of Swarthmorons.

The Book of Mawrites.

The Book of Broad Streeters.

The Book of Kensingtonians.

The Book of Annenburghers.

The Book of Exploits.

The only link you need is this one, to the online Boomer Bible.

All of today’s headlines are there. And then some. Read before you lash out. If you still can read.

Little brothers get all the breaks.

So everybody thinks Trump’s Tweets are worse than Hillary’s crimes and treason. I have some ideas about this.

1. Get the fuck off Twitter.

2. Get the fuck off Twitter.

3. Get the fuck off Twitter.

Twitter is porn for the egotistical. It’s a surprise for the egotistical that Twitter is calling their souls in?

Have to admit something here. Don’t care what Trump says on Twitter. I don’t want him as a dinner guest. I want him as an antidote to Hillary. That’s it.

15,000 in one day. Think about that, you millennials.

He was the coolest.

It’s not all about dogs. Tigger was a feral before I knew what a feral was. He lived outside. He was lithe, dangerous, a tabbie with an attitude. He let me hold him sometimes. Just for a second. I loved his little ass.

He used to hang out with Sebastian in the lower yard. They actually sat in chairs at a table. You know. Just hanging out. Sebastian wore a beret, I recall. He was obviously French. You could almost make,out his little absinthe cup.

They didn’t talk much. From the upper yard you had to read their lips. “Salut guy. ça va?” “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”

Then the roaming dogs of Greenwich found Sebastian and killed him to death. The angry old lady next door made me come scrape him off her garage floor. So. Tigger was alone after that. He said, you didn’t help Sebastian. I don’t like people anymore.

Couldn’t blame him. The death of Sebastian was a blow to my heart. I did a thing I’ve done for no dog. Bought a granite tombstone. You didn’t have to scrape him off a cement garage floor.

Anyway. Tigger still wouldn’t come in the house. He was out there, roaming. He could kill anything. He could climb anything, find anything, do anything. He was Tigger. Then he met his match.

I remember seeing the actual crime. He climbed ten feet into a cedar tree in order to attack bird eggs. Didn’t eat them. Just pawed them.

Wrong move times ten. The mother was a mockingbird.

Do you know anything about mockingbirds? The smartest birds in the world, with the possible exception of ravens and crows. Definitely smarter than cats.

So the ultimate predator suddenly became the ultimate victim.

Here’s the picture. The mockingbird mother took up a spot midway on the telephone wire — like a middle linebacker calling the defense — in front of the house where Tigger lived and screamed at him endlessly. When he tried to duck away she flew at him in full blitz mode. He ran, he hid, he skulked. YOU DO NOT ASSAULT MOCKINGBIRD BABIES.

Why Tigger finally abandoned the feral thing and came inside the house.

They’re so faux cool, aren’t they? The ones who pretend they always shone at the Algonquin Round Table.

This one too.

I’m calling shenanigans. There was a Georgie Auld who played real saxophone at one time. He’s the one I like best. He played in Harlem.

Ever been to Wall Street? It sucks. Trump is actually Harlem. A mess on stage. No one knows what he’ll say next. The definition of fun.