Category Archives: Paffooney

Special Snowflakes

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When conservative cultural warriors, Twitter Trolls, or dyspeptic gasbags like Rush Limbaugh call you a “Special Snowflake”, I have discovered, to my chagrin, that they don’t mean it as a compliment.  In their self-centered, egotistical world you have to be as emotionally tough and able to “take it” as they believe (somewhat erroneously to my way of thinking) they themselves are.  They have no time for political correctness, safe spaces, or, apparently, manners polite enough not to get you killed on the mean streets where they never go.  Being a retired school teacher who was once in charge of fragile young psyches trying to negotiate a cruel Darwinian world, I think I disagree with them.

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Have you ever tried to draw a snowflake?  Believe me, it is difficult.  Snowflakes are hexagonal star-shapes with enough lace and  filigrees in them to make it a nightmare to draw it with painfully arthritic hands.  The one above took me an hour with ruler and compass and colored pencils, and it still doesn’t look as good as a first grader can create with scissors and folded paper.  Much better to use a computer program to spit them out with mathematical precision and fractal beauty.  That’s how all the tiny ones in the background were created.  But even a computer can’t recreate the fragile, complicated beauty of real snowflakes.

You see how the fragile crystalline structures will break in spots, melt in spots, attach to others, and get warped or misshapen?  That is the reason no two snowflakes are alike, even though they all come from the same basic mathematically precise patterns generated by ice crystals.  Life changes each one in a different way.

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And that, of course, is the reason this essay is really about people rather than mere physical artifacts of cold weather.  Our fragilities and frailties are earned, and they make us who we are.  I have a squinky eye like Popeye from playing baseball and getting hit by a pitch.  I have a big toe that won’t bend from playing football.  They both represent mistakes that I learned from the hard way.

As a teacher, I learned that bipolar disorder and anxiety disorders are very real things.  I lost a job once to one of those.  And I spent a long night talking someone out of suicide one horrible December.  Forgive me, I had to take fifteen minutes just there to cry again.  I guess I am just a “special snowflake”.  But the point is, those things are real.  People really are destroyed by them sometimes.  And they deserve any effort I can make to protect them or help them make it through the night.

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But people are like snowflakes.  They are all complex.  They are all beautiful in some way.  They are all different.  No two are exactly the same.

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And I really think boorish bastards have no right to insist that we need to take safe spaces and sanctuaries away from them.  Every snowflake has worth.  Winter snow leaves moisture for seedlings to get their start every spring.  If you are a farmer, you should know this and appreciate snowflakes.  And snowflakes can be fascinating.  Even goofy ones like me.

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Filed under 1000 Voices Speak for Compassion, artwork, battling depression, commentary, compassion, humor, metaphor, Paffooney, self portrait, Snow Babies, strange and wonderful ideas about life

How To Write A Mickian Essay

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I know the last thing you would ever consider doing is to take up writing essays like these.  What kind of a moronic bingo-boingo clown wants to take everything he or she knows, put it in a high-speed blender and turn it all into idea milkshakes?

But I was a writing teacher for many years.  And now, being retired and having no students to yell at when my blood pressure gets high, the urge to teach it again is overwhelming.

So, here goes…

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Once you have picked the silly, pointless, or semi-obnoxious idea you want to shape the essay around, you have to write a lead.  A lead is the attention-grabbing device or booby-trap for readers that will draw them into your essay.  In a Mickian essay, whose purpose is to entertain, or possibly bore you in a mildly amusing manner, or cause you enough brain damage to make you want to send me money (this last possibility never seems to work, but I thought I’d throw it in there just in case), the lead is usually a  “surpriser”, something so amazingly dumb or off-the-wall crazy that you just have to read, at least a little bit, to find out if this writer is really that insane or what.  The rest of the intro paragraph that is not part of the lead may be used to draw things together to suggest the essay is not simply a chaotic mass of silly words in random order.  It can point the reader down the jungle path that he or she can take to come out of the other end of the essay alive.

Once started on this insane quest to build an essay that will strangle the senses and mix up the mind of the reader, you have to carry out the plan in three or four body paragraphs.  This is where you have to use those bricks of brainiac bull-puckie that you have saved up to be the concrete details in the framework of the main rooms of the little idea-house you are constructing.  If you were to number or label these main rooms, this one you are reading now would, for example, be Room #2, or B, or “the second body paragraph”.  And as you read this paragraph, you should be thinking in the voice of your favorite English teacher of all time.  The three main rooms in this example idea house are beginning, middle, and end.  You could also call them introduction, body, and conclusion.  These are the rooms of your idea house that the reader will live in during his or her brief stay (assuming they don’t run out of the house screaming after seeing the clutter in the entryway).

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The last thing you have to do is the concluding paragraph.  (Of course, you have to realize that we are not actually there yet in this essay.  This is Room C in the smelly chickenhouse of this essay, the third body paragraph.)  The escape hatch on the essay that may potentially explode into fireworks of thoughts, daydreams, or plans for something better to do with your life than a read an essay written by an insane former middle school English teacher at any moment, is a necessary part of the whole process.  This is where you have to remind them of what the essay is basically about, and leave them with the thought that you want to haunt them in their nightmares later.  The last thing that you say in the essay is the thing they are the most likely to remember.  So you need to save the best for last.

So, here, finally, is the exit door to this masterfully mixed-up Mickian Essay.  It is a simple, and straightforward structure.  The introduction containing the lead is followed by three or four body paragraphs that develop the idea and end in a conclusion that summarizes or simply restates the overall main idea.  And now you know why all of my former students either know how to construct an essay, or have several years left in therapy sessions with a psychiatrist.

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Stardusters… Canto 31

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Canto Thirty-One – Moonbase Gundahl

Commander Biznap was a capable pilot and Farbick admired the way he simply turned the Golden Wing in the air and took off towards the mother ship.  Simple and elegant was always the mark of skill.

“Now that your commander has gone and left you to die…” said Stabharh, the scrawny little Galtorrian lizard-man enforcer, “you need to show us how to work the space tech devices.  And hurry because I know some Galtorrians that are dying to eat you.”

“Have you ever eaten a Telleron before, Stabbie?” asked the cruel and obese Lord Bahbahr.

“Of course not.  But we haven’t had food in so long, I was beginning to consider eating you, my lord.  And don’t call me Stabbie.”

“Ah, we will have none of that!  You are required to lay down your life to serve me.   It is the law, and I own you body and soul.”

“Who besides me is left to enforce the law?” asked the skinny lizard with an evil grin.

The smile vanished from the face of the corpulent Galtorrian ruler.  Farbick carefully noted the malevolent glares passing between the two lizard-men and vowed secretly to himself to take maximum advantage of such a situation.

“What device would you like to learn about first, my lord?” asked Farbick with a timely interruption.  Then he strategically added, “the skortch pistols perhaps?”

“I am much more interested in the force-field thingy that kept the cannonballs from destroying that spaceship.  You have no idea how useful that could be if Senator Tedhkruhz learns that we have returned here.”

The little enforcer seemed to whole-heartedly agree with Bahbahr.  So Farbick moved near to the force-field control and activator box lying at the foot of the pile of Telleron tech.

“That is a very wise choice,” said Farbick as Starbright looked on encouragingly.  “May I turn it on and demonstrate?”

“Please do,” said Bahbahr.

Farbick ignited the control box with the click of a button and a sudden electrical humming noise that sounded reassuring and powerful.

“By adjusting the three-dimensional coordinates like this,” said Farbick, “I can place an invisible shield around you and Stabharh.  You can’t see it, but it is impervious to kinetic attacks and weak energy attacks.  Gunpowder will never pierce it.  Show them, please, Starbright.”

“How?”

“Pick up that chair there and hit Stabharh over the head with it.”

“Now, hold on there, frog-boy!” growled the lizard man.

Before Stabharh could even flinch, Starbright picked up the chair and threw it at him.  It shattered in the air as it encountered the generated field.

“Impressive!” said Bahbahr.

“Do you want to know what I find most impressive?” said Farbick, laughing.  “It can be shaped in the form of a box.  Just as the chair can’t penetrate the walls of the force field, neither can the two of you.  You are our prisoners now.”

The two lizard-men seemed stunned.  It was entirely possible that Farbick had won the day already.  He could now pick up a skortch pistol and finish these two threats in a blink.  Yet, somehow, that didn’t feel right.  He could not do a deed that was just as bad, if not worse, than what the lizard-men themselves were capable of.

From the courtyard above in the ruined fortress, Farbick and Starbright suddenly heard voices and the sound of someone scrambling hastily through rubble.

“I thought we were alone on this moon,” said Starbright, horrified.

“We were…” said Stabharh with a sneer, “at least we were not burdened with anyone who counts.  But the remaining inhabitants of Gundahl are coming now, because of my silent alarm.  And hopefully they have weapons to kill you two with.  Who is the clever fellow now, hmm?”

*****

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The Man From Stratford on Avon

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I am, unfortunately, a dedicated conspiracy theorist.  No, not the braying, unintelligent kind like Alex Jones who has an unhinged and hidden agenda.  More the Indiana Jones kind, seeking the truth no matter where it leads, but always relying on research, science, and creative methods of re-framing the facts in order to reveal truths that other people don’t see even when the answers are right in front of them.

An example of this is my firm belief that everything we think we know about the man known as William Shakespeare is based on an ages-old deception and is basically an unrevealed lie.

Of course, I am not the only literature-obsessed kook who has ever taken up this notion of someone else having written the great works of Shakespeare.  I share the opinion with Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorn, Walt Whitman, Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli, Charles Dickens, Actor Derek Jacobi, and the great Mark Twain (also not the writer’s real name) .

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It is very possible the standard details of the life of William Shakespeare have been fudged just a bit… or maybe quite a lot.

The biggest question that I can see when looking at the man we pretend is the actual author of the plays, is why doesn’t this man look like an author?  As brought out in the video, the only example we have of the author’s own handwriting are six signatures from legal documents, three of which come from his last will and testament.  And if the name is really William Shakespeare, then the Stratford man misspelled his own name.  He wrote it as Shakspere or Shaksper.  And the handwriting is atrocious, nothing like the carefully practice signature I sometimes put on my own handwritten work.  How does that happen?  I have seen signatures by many other authors, both famous and obscure, and nowhere do I see such careless script as what is allegedly the signature of the greatest and most acclaimed writer who ever lived.

The accepted life story of Shaksper doesn’t bear up under scrutiny either.  In spite of being a wealthy businessman and mayor, his father can be seen to be provably illiterate, relying on associates and underlings to write the paperwork involved in his business and mayoral rule.  There is no proof in the form of enrollment lists or written record of Shaksper having ever enrolled at or attended the school that supposedly taught Stratfordian youths to read and write.  His wife and children and grandchildren were also provably illiterate.  What other writer has such a lack of effect on his own family?

And Shaksper’s will details everything he owned and left to others at his death.  Nowhere is there a mention of plays, manuscripts, poetry, or even books.  The greatest author who ever lived owned no books at all?  He was provably wealthy enough to buy books, and public libraries did not exist back then.  How then did he demonstrate such knowledge of Ovid’s Metamorphosis, as well as the functioning of royal courts both in England and abroad?  How did he get so many details right about places in Italy and Europe which he had never visited or seen with his own eyes?  Something is definitely missing.

It is true that everything mentioned is merely circumstantial evidence.  And yet, if all circumstantial evidence leans in only one direction, then isn’t the conclusion probably sound?

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Do you not see the lines of the mask in this portrait?

But if Shaksper, the Stratford man, did not write the masterful literary works he has been given credit for, then who did?  And why did he let the credit go to someone else?

Ah, I am betting you are beginning to smell a multi-part essay brewing.  I mean to tell you who I think is under the mask, who it was I believe actually wrote under the pen name of William Shakespeare.

 

 

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Filed under conspiracy theory, goofy thoughts, humor, Paffooney, strange and wonderful ideas about life, William Shakespeare

Stardusters… Canto 30

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Canto Thirty – Outside the Main Floral Garden in the Bio-Dome

While Davalon and Tanith worked seriously on examining plants for Sizzahl; Brekka, Menolly, and George Jetson grew bored.

“Tanith, can’t we go in there where all the flowers are?” asked Brekka in a whiney voice.

“You should wait until we have completed this task,” said Tanith with a serious frown of concentration on her emerald-green face.  “This examination needs to be done.”

“Seriously?  Tanith?” whined Menolly.  “We’ve lived on space ships or orbital stations all our lives.  We have never had a chance to play among actual flowers, and we can see big ones in that next room there.”

Davalon and Tanith continued to have their noses among the plants brought back from the wreckage of the space platform.  George Jetson was grinning widely as he knew full well how this would play out.

“We have no way of knowing if it is even safe to go in there,” said Davalon into a plant he was examining with one of Sizzahl’s special tools.

“You can’t give Menolly an answer like that,” said George with a sneer.  “She’s not smart enough to know what the word safe actually means.”

“I know more words than you do, smarty-frog!”

“Don’t you think the girls will be all right if George goes with them to protect them?” Tanith asked Davalon.

“No.  They’d probably be in even greater danger that way,” said Davalon, grinning up at George.

George was sure he had them right where he wanted them then.  He knew perfectly well that Menolly and Brekka were a couple of horrid harpies when they were bored and needed something to entertain themselves.  That’s why they were always the two that called for Mickey Mouse Club music back aboard the ship and always started the tadpoles dancing.  Dav was going to give in so he and Tanith could do the science stuff that he seemed to love, and he would certainly expect George to take on the burden of entertaining the female tadpoles.

“So, you will let them go?” asked Tanith, obviously somewhat anxious for the answer to be yes.

“Stay close enough that we can hear if there is trouble.  You can’t take weapons or even put on clothes, you know.”

George saluted Davalon.   There were no delusions among the tadpoles who was in charge.  Davalon had explored Earth and lived to tell about it… brought specimens back to the ship, and even won the favor of Captain Xiar.  How could he not be their leader?

“Okay girls,” said George in his sexiest leadership voice, “follow me and we will go play amongst the posies.”

The girls, now thrilled at the prospect of exploring the Bio-Dome further, pranced naked towards the big transparent door.  George, also stark naked and very confidently green, followed close behind.  As they opened the door and entered, he noticed some writing in the language of the Galtorrian lizard people.

“Bresht makka sziithappi,” is what it actually said, but somewhere in the deepest part of George’s egg-sack programming, a little voice was translating, “Beware!  Man-eating plants!”  He ignored the voice.  After all, Tellerons were not men.  Were they?  And surely tadpoles were not men.  Especially not girl-tadpoles.  He skipped after Menolly and Brekka.

*****

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Unrepentant Blog Plans

I am not out of things to write about.  In fact, I have far more ideas than I have time to manage.  So I will waste some time I don’t have in plotting out the way forward through the creative jungle.

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I am at the climax of the novel Stardusters and Space Lizards.  I have seen by posting it chapter by chapter here that I must not only finish it, as a good, timely science fiction novel, but that I must experiment with publishing the entire thing on my blog.  I may later self-publish the thing, but you will get the chance to see the entire rough draft here… on Tuesdays.

I also have several cartoon series that I want to expand upon and publish here.  That includes my Action Figure Follies, my Tales From Fantastica, and Hidden Kingdom.  These are also posted in my vault, Mickey’s House of Fiction.

I want to post further on what I am learning about the perilous publishing journey that I hope to complete before I die, sharing with you some of the many secrets, tricks, hopes, and foolishnesses I have used to shoot myself in both feet and sink myself into the quicksand of author anonymity.

I have a post in mind about the YouTube videos of the NerdWriter, an auteur of infinite and in-depth ideas.  I want to share some of his amazing work and insights with you.

And the conspiracy theorist inside me is bursting to get out with everything I have learned about William Shakespeare. who has never really been who we think he is, and the very solid evidence of why I believe in this loony conspiracy theory when I don’t believe that the moon landing was faked by Franco Zeffirelli.

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At some point, too, I need to let you in on the creative processes that occur as I write the novel Recipes For Gingerbread Children.  It seems to be another inevitable novel that has to come out of me before my stupid old story-teller head explodes with it.

And maybe I need to explain who Dr. Seabreez is, and why there is more than just one me traveling through time and space and laughter.

I know that is a lot to threaten you with all at once, and you may find a post like this extremely boring.  In fact, you may have given up reading already.  But I do intend to make these writing abominations actually occur, so you may as well grit your teeth and get ready as the creative wheels turn, or have a flat, or grow spikes… something like that.

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Bittersweet Irony

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“Mickey, you nerd!  Your jokes are not funny!

You’re not clever, you’re stupid, and not even punny!”

 

 

wisdom from a Twitter troll who admires Dr. Seuss

I will admit, I was not joking when I said the world ended when Trump won the election.  I believe climate change is beyond our control when stupid, vicious, greedy people control 100% of our government.  They are busy already, before Obama even left office, with sealing our doom.  They recently passed the REINS Act, which is intended to not only curb but roll back government regulations.  The Republicans will no longer simply allow regulatory agencies like the EPA to control which toxic chemicals go into our food and drinking water when it might cost the taxpayers (especially RICH taxpayers) money.  They passed a rule that if corporations want to inject batrachotoxin into hamburger meat to increase profits short term, the FDA can’t regulate and prevent that without first having a congressional committee in each of the houses of congress voting their approval of the ban.  This with the aid of Tea Party sandbagging and temper tantrums to grease the gears toward refusal to turn.  Batrachotoxin as every congressman surely understands is the chemical in poison dart frogs that will will kill you if you kiss them.  We certainly need more of that in hamburgers to make the meat look tastier.  So, they will quickly and efficiently ignore the issue and fail to allow the regulation.  We are doomed, dear ones.

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Turtle-boy, pictured here, shows off his favorite flat iron of visual-sarcastic irony which he uses to throw at the heads of dumbnutz who don’t get what irony is.

Irony is when everything you held in your heart as an expectation and looked forward to as something you could depend on for the rest of your life comes abruptly to an end and the opposite is what actually occurs.

Republicans now hold all power in the US government.  Again!  Eight years of Lonesome George the Rodeo Clown, a Wall-Street meltdown and resulting Great Recession, two nearly-endless wars fought over false intelligence about WMDs, and eight years of obstructing everything the other side tried to do to fix their mess was not enough to satisfy Lucretia Borgia’s party of poison and greed.

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Senator Turtle-man McConnell doesn’t get irony.  He doesn’t understand now why Democrats don’t get on board with all the legislation and confirmation hearings that the GOP wants to push through right away.  Why would they want to obstruct legislation that helps people by reducing their social security benefits and ending not only the Affordable Care Act, but doing away with medicare as well?  It’s what the people voted for, isn’t it?

I have instructed Turtle-boy to throw the flat iron of visual-sarcastic irony at Turtle-man’s head.  But he must do it quickly and accurately, or the slow-talking Kentucky Senator will pull that big turtle head back inside his shell, as he has done so many times before.  And even if the flat iron hits squarely, it will not change anything.  We have lost and the future is lost to us and all our offspring.

I do still have some hope of survival of the human race and life on Earth.  Ironically that is because I am just as soft-brained and hopelessly stupid as the rest of my kind.  And I believe in savoring the time we have left.  I intend to cast off political worries into a sea of forgetfulness.  We shall have to see what sharks that attracts.  But hopefully, the sharks that actually eat us will die of food poisoning.

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Filed under angry rant, humor, irony, Paffooney, politics, satire

Stardusters… Canto 29

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Canto Twenty-Nine – In the Bio-Dome

Being naked was almost more than an Iowa Boy who grew up in the 60’s and 70’s could take.  It was immoral, wasn’t it?  And those feelings that boys get when they are around even the idea of naked girls?  They were back with such force that it practically knocked him on his behind with the sheer power of desire.  Alden Morrell was lost and afraid.  As he stood in the arboretum amongst dying alien trees and dying alien field crops, he tried to hug himself calm.  It really wasn’t an inappropriate desire, was it?  He did not feel urges towards the lizard girl or the naked Telleron girls.  He knew, they weren’t human, after all.  Sure they were pretty, but… and the only girl he really desired so strongly was, after all, his wife… by law.

“Alden?  I was looking for you in the living area?  Why are you here in the greenhouse?  What’s wrong?”

Gracie walked toward him, comfortable with her own nudity in ways that Alden simply wasn’t ready to comprehend.  He loved her… but she was a child.   The size and shape of a child.  Wanting her was wrong… wasn’t it?  He was, after all, a child himself.  At least, in this new body he had been given he was.

“I don’t know.  I can’t stand being naked so much.”

“You look good, and I love you for it.”

“But, I…”

“Alden, we are farming folk.  We know about soil and plants.  Can’t we help Sizzahl save her planet?  And those lovely zhar-does?”

Alden looked about him at the withering undergrowth and the soil beneath it.  He was a farmer, wasn’t he.  He picked up a handful of moist black dirt and held it to his nose.

“The soil smells rich with nitrogen, like it had a soybean crop planted in it last season to fix nitrogen in the soil.”

“Do lizard men know about crop rotation?”

“They must to have soil this rich and fertile.  If only we had some good corn and beans.”

“Could we get some on the Telleron space ship?”

“Most of the plants they grow on board the mother ship are ferns and fungus.  They prefer swamp plants mostly.”

“Rice, you suppose?”

“Maybe.  We can ask Xiar if we live long enough to ever see him again.”

“Alden, we are here by a miracle of God.  I was old and dying, and now I’m young and alive again.  You’re younger and more energetic than I’ve ever seen you.  I wish we had grown up together so I could’ve known you when you were like this before.  I would have loved you from the very first time we met and known you for so much longer.”

Alden stopped thinking so much about himself.  It made things easier.  He focused on the problems of Sizzahl and the tadpoles.  Yes, he was a farmer, and this was a farming problem.

“Maybe we can help Sizzahl and all the rest,” he said.  “Maybe we could find leaves and stems among the plant samples that don’t have the disease and try growing some small cuttings into whole plants.  I don’t see any place here where they’ve tried that.  And we can ask the tadpoles about what seeds they have from Telleri.”

“And maybe even Earth,” added Gracie.

“Yeah.  Maybe even Earth.”

*****

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Explaining the Words… Part Three

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This is the last part of this monstrous political potpourri, I promise.  Because even a nattering nabob of liberal claptrap like me has to reach a conclusion sooner or later.  If I don’t, then sooner or later Donald Trump is going to hear that I may have called him a Fascist, soon to be followed by a Twitter Tweet Storm from Hell.

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But the only part of the continuum of political terminology I haven’t explained is the center of the horseshoe.  Yes, I said “horseshoe” because it is not a straight line continuum.  The two extreme ends, the crackpot communist end and the freaky fascist end both bend towards chaos and destruction.  The safe part is in the middle.  When you mount a horseshoe over the kitchen door for luck, the middle part goes at the bottom.  This way the horseshoe holds the good luck in.  If you tip it upside down, the good luck all drains out.  And for my extremely conservative friends in both Iowa and Texas, that is a metaphor, when you use one thing to mean something else completely, or compare two unlike things to get at a deeper meaning.  So please don’t break your brains trying to figure that one out.  It is just more of what you call, “loony liberal stupidity”.

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I have always thought of myself as a moderate, at least until recently.  The right side of the equation has skewed the numbers so badly that moderates are now liberals by comparison.  Republicans since Reagan have really turned Eisenhower into a liberal.  What once was a moderate conservative Republican in the 1950’s would have to be considered a liberal Democrat today if he or she maintained their core values.  I have the Bushies who are really proto-fascists peeking in at the right side of the moderate cartoon because they both started as moderates, and are really pretty much to blame for pushing moderates to the narrowing left as they ballooned the more evil aspects of the right.

In truth, the old Greek idea of “Moderation in all things”. also provably a Biblical idea, is really the best approach to politics.  Liberals aim to change things for the better (which we desperately need them to do in the next four years) and conservatives aim to preserve everything that already exists that is good.  We need both of those sides in a political debate.  But good governing happens always in the middle.  Remember, chaos happens at both the extreme ends.

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Eisenhower is a good example of the kind of moderate I am exalting as the best political sort of thing.  He was a moderate conservative Republican.  But if you substituted Barack Obama’s picture and name on this quote, my conservative friends would start hooting and hollering about the communist Muslim president from Kenya.  The idea itself is what they have been taught is communist liberal claptrap.  I may have mentioned before that I see Eisenhower policies and politics as virtually a synonym for the policies and politics of Barack Obama.  Obama is a moderate.  As is Mitt Romney whose Republican healthcare plan as governor of Massachusetts Obama stole to turn into Obamacare.  Jimmy Carter was a gentle Christian gentleman who was not only a moderate, but the first presidential candidate I was ever eligible to vote for.  I could easily have lived with Bob Dole, the moderate Republican senator from Kansas as president.  Moderates, in my estimation, are a very good thing for our country.

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Harry Truman was also a moderate, though he was very much on the conservative end of the moderate bench.  Still, what he said in this quote is really more true now than it was in his own time.  I would rate Truman as more conservative than Eisenhower.

So there is my essay on politics in three complete parts.  I have said my piece, and am now ready to be called a “stupid fear-mongering liberal”.  Let the throwing of overripe tomatoes begin.

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Explaining the Words… Part Two

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Yesterday I tried in my very best loopy-liberal reasonable voice to explain what liberals are, their inherent characteristics and flaws, and the reasons we should not simply shoot them on sight.  So today I will try to make the case for what I believe conservatives are really all about and why we should not automatically shoot them either (or shoot them with automatic weapons so that Ted Cruz can cook more machine-gun bacon.)

Remember, I explained liberals and liberal philosophy as being an instrument of change.  And I identify myself as a liberal in these times of the Trumpster, Chaos Clown of Making America Sweat Again.  I think change is needed.  I had hoped for that with Obama, but the conservatives were victorious in their primary function of preserving the status quo.  Now, I do think there are times in history when conservatives were absolutely essential to our government.  The 1950’s is a good example of that under the Eisenhower Administration.  (But not for social reasons like the struggle for equal rights, rather the economic situation of growth and innovation and positive spirit… along with the invention of Rock and Roll.)

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Conservatives are meant to preserve what is workable and good, beneficial to all.  Unfortunately, some conservatives fall into the trap of wanting to preserve their own power.  That leads down dark paths to Fascism.  In my cartoon of conservatives immediately above, I should point out that I have included only the cartoon characters that have fallen at least partially into the Fascist tiger trap.

George Herbert Walker Bush is the son of Prescott Bush, a politician and banker whose New York UBC bank (he was president of the bank at the time) in 1942 had funds confiscated from it on the grounds that it was Nazi money funding the Nazi party in Germany and allowing the funny-looking failed painter from Austria with the toothbrush mustache to become the ultimate Fascist leader.

George W. Bush, his son, also known as Lonesome George the Rodeo Clown (mainly by me), continued the Nazi tradition by introducing the Patriot Act, reducing American civil liberties and establishing the surveillance state that we now enjoy.

Definition of Fascism from Webster’s; 

  1. often capitalized :  a political philosophy, movement, or regime (as that of the Fascisti) that exalts nation and often race above the individual and that stands for a centralized autocratic government headed by a dictatorial leader, severe economic and social regimentation, and forcible suppression of opposition

  2. a tendency toward or actual exercise of strong autocratic or dictatorial control <early instances of army fascism and brutality — J. W. Aldridge>

Richard Nixon had a direct link to the good conservativism of President Eisenhower, having been Ike’s Vice President and even being related by marriage as Nixon’s daughter married David Eisenhower.  But he also had a streak of paranoia and panic that caused the entire Watergate kerfluffle and his eventual flight from power into ignominy.

Donald J. Trump is, to be fair, still pretty much an unknown quantity.  But everything he has demonstrated in his business history and presidential campaign suggests he will be an even stronger Fascist than anyone I have named so far.  He puts on a show like P.T. Barnum, and horrifies and fascinates his audience.  But we never made the mistake of electing a liar and a con man like P.T. Barnum to the highest office in the land before.  And the paranoia and excuse-making through denial of reality we have seen so far in the Russian hacking scandal, makes me fear the worst.  Trump is more paranoid than Nixon.  He will probably do much worse things than Nixon did as a result.

The KKK has a place in my cartoon because their history is one of trying to preserve the status quo through violent repression and terror campaigns.  Their suppression tactics are the same as the Nazi brown-shirts on Krystallnacht and the Gestapo throughout WWII.  And through the Steve Bannon connection, the KKK has a firm grip on the underlying philosophies of the Trump Administration.

So the possible end point of the conservative push toward Fascism is the same sort of chaos you get on the far left end.  The leftist idea of constant revolution ends in violence or Fascist dictatorship.  Fascist dictatorship squeezes everything it tries to control so hard that it breaks, and Fascists try to control everything.

So, I fear both ends of the political spectrum.

Though I apologize to Bernie.  I would’ve voted for Bernie.  He was just the farthest left Joker meme I had to choose from for this metaphor.

As you have probably guessed by now, I intend to write one more post about this whole mess of political nonsense.  I have talked so far about the doom on both ends of the horseshoe, and so far ignored the middle, the part that holds the good fortune.   So, being well over 500 words once again, I will leave you until my next horrible political post about the world just prior to the Apocalypse.

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