It’s an art on how not to answer a question

If you want to watch and be amazed at how a person can be so good at not answering a question, as well as how an interviewer is just allowing that person to answer his question with a non answer…watch this video




At least he didn’t say stop getting tattoos! amiright!?

They sink to new lows every day, and I really just can’t keep up with it.  I don’t know how anyone can.

“Americans have choices, and they’ve got to make a choice,” Chaffetz said Tuesday on CNN. “So rather than getting that new iPhone that they just love and want to go spend hundreds of dollars on that, maybe they should invest in their own health care. They’ve got to make those decisions themselves.”

There isn’t a way to change this person’s mind.  It’s so amazing to me that a person can say something like this.  Look I expect to get it from my relatives and folks on facebook, and maybe the idiot in my office.  But I really am surprised, but not surprised, but am surprised by this comment.

He’s talking down to fellow Americans as if they are second class, shit 3rd class at best.  Like they are another being altogether.  They are less than a human and don’t deserve his time because they make what are in his mind poor choices.

You can’t teach a person like this any kind of lesson.  Nothing will work with on this type of person.  Sad.  Sick

Week 8: It’s easier to count the weeks in office than the Lies

This shouldn’t come as a shock, and neither will the fact that his pleebes will dismiss the lie with some bullshit answer they are given that will totally make sense to them and absolve their leader.

hat sharp reversal now paves the way for the use of a stockpile of steel manufactured in Canada by a subsidiary of Evraz, a company in which Russian billionaire Roman Abramovich owns nearly a one/third stake.

Abramovich, estimated to be worth $8.9 billion, who ranks No. 151 on Forbes list of the 500 wealthiest people in the world, has longstanding personal and political ties to Russian President Vladimir Putin, whom President Trump has repeatedly praised.

Am I the only dude following the Flip or Flop Fiasco?

Because I can’t get enough of this!

Personally I need a sex tape to surface to really round out all this drama.

I have to believe that of the two he’s the business man and she’s the eye candy.  She could however be just as integral to the success of the business because her looks are clearly why perves like me tune in.  She’s like a porn model doing demo.  At some point in my own pervy mind the show is going to go all out gang bang and Christina is going to drop to her knees and allow Tarek to pound his ten penny nail into her.

I got your back Tarek!  (not like that I mean)


QOD: 3/3/17

If you get to execute a mission a week after you were sworn in as POTUS that lets you murder at least 20 women and children and as a bonus we’ll throw in 1 Navy Seal Would you do it?  How about as a teaser: Would you do it if your fanatical base lets you blame it on the guy that was no longer in office and say for you was the one that “planned” it, would you?

Short Story – Tomorrow

He was on the edge of his bed.  The egg carton foam compressed down into the mattress and almost into the box spring.  He leaned over and begun to tie his boot.  Steel toe.  Not actually steal toe.  Plastic Toe.  The steel made his feet cold in the winter.  The lace broke off in his hand.  Not today, please god not today.  A drop of sweat fell onto the tongue the boot.  He pulled out the lace, decided to skip a hole, twiddled the strand between his finger and thumb, and forced it through the eyelet.  Christ, now it’s uneven.  Another bead starts to fall.  He sits up, the sweat rolls down the center of his nose, and then down onto the cleft of his lip.  He looks up at the ceiling fan.  Rotating.  He replaced it last year.  The sweat falls into his mouth. He exhales a deep cleansing, therapeutic breath and feels more sweat fall down his back like Plinko chips, this raises his skin and he gets a chill.  He shakes it off, leans back over, commences the evening out of his laces. Unthreading the work he had just done.   He now feels the coolness of the air moving on his back and the back of his neck.  The anxiety is causing the sweat, which is causing more tension, and it is all causing him to question everything he has been planning for today.   The right boot is now cinched.  He sits up, takes another breath, this time wiping his brow with his right forearm.  It shouldn’t be this laborious for him.  It’s been a while since he’s put these damn things on.  He leans over again to tie the left one.  This one goes as it should.  Laced up past the ankle.  Tight.  Secure.  Cinched.

He stands up, the bed breaths relief back into itself.  His undone belt buckle clangs across the metal button of his jeans.  The jeans are half unbuttoned and resting on his hips.  He stands shoulder width apart.  Fan blades rotating above his head. Looking up at him it looks like the blades of a helicopter were attached to his head.  His chest is average.  There’s nothing special about it anymore.  On its left side, a tribal tattoo from another mistake he’d made a long time ago.  He reaches onto the bed for the Under Armor shirt he bought just for today.  He slides it on and over his head.  His shirt now damp.  The shirt makes him feel secure despite its dampness.  It pulls him together.  He feels bigger. Firm. Steady.  He tucks it in.  Both arms reaching down and across his body as he manipulates the button fly, the black shirt gleaning from the motion.  Shadows from the fan stretch across the ceiling and down onto the walls.  The shades are drawn closed.  The white solid wood door to his room is shut and locked.

He’s still standing at the end of the bed. Feet planted, he leans for the vest and with his left arm grabs it, it falls open and he punches his right arm through the hole, leans back and inserts his left arm in and with a roll of the shoulders  positions it onto his body.  He pauses a second to feel the weight of the vest.  It’s heavier today than he remembers it being.  The sweat won’t stop.  He looks to his left, the dresser has a half can of Red Bull on it, sweating as well.  He should open the door to let some air in here.  The can has formed a ring on the top of the dresser.  He shakes his head.  In the instant he thinks he’s gonna hear about leaving a mark on the dresser, he says to himself, “that’s what you are worried about?”  Shaking his head he looks down, finds the zipper, inserts the other half of it and zips.

Over top of the vest goes his white button up.  He hasn’t ironed it which is fine, he’s not wearing a tie today.  He’s noticed that when he does, he gets noticed, and today he doesn’t need to be noticed.  He turns around from the end of the bed and faces the mirror attached to his bureau.  There’s so much crap atop this thing, he can’t believe he’s worried about being chewed out for the Red Bull which he steps over to and gulps some more.  He walks back to the dresser, squares up to it, checks himself out in the mirror briefly, quickly he closes his eyes, exhales and let’s his head fall down fast, towards his chest.  He opens his eyes and focuses on the flat black metal 45 where it lies centered to his body.  There it is.  A weapon.  He can’t believe he owns this. He possesses this object.  He actively purchased it with the specific intent of using it.  Today.  And, a second ago he honestly was worried about leaving a water mark on a piece of wood?  His hands are pressed against the top of the dresser now.  Gripping it.  The Gun is still centered to him. He’s above it, staring at it. Acknowledging it.  The totality of this piece of metal is hitting him. It’s impact will be real.  This decision didn’t arrive at him on a whim.  It’s built up to this and this piece of machined metal was built for this.  As he looks to the mirror he can see the end of the barrel.  There it is, just resting on its side, solid, solid black, the trigger and the handle.   He can see the thumb safety is on.  He smirks and thinks, “Safety…on a gun.”

Flashes of the Navy come back to him and he sees himself standing topside at 19 years old.  The only thing preventing a terrorist storming the boat was him.  A 19 year old kid barely out of high school, pissed at the world for the hand dealt to him, standing topside in 28 degrees, 4:30 in the morning, with a 45 caliber pistol adorned to his hip ala John Wayne.

He closes his eye and smirks again at the thought of his 19 year old self looking into the future, and seeing him now slouched over his dresser, adorned in this pathetic bullet proof vest, jeans and combat boots.  Could he even picture the sweating, the pitiful excuse he has become of a man, and a father?

His daughter is sick and in pain again.  Because of him she is sick and in pain.  Again.  She’s sick again. He holds back the tears.  He’s cried enough over this nonsense and today isn’t the god damned day he’s going to cry again, over something he has created, is responsible for solely now and can’t undo.  He’s so powerless.  He has no recourse.  No other plan.  He has nothing else left to consider.  No other option.  He’s put his trust in so many other people and they continue to fail him.  They continue to lie through their ever loving teeth to him.  Every. Time. They. Meet.  LIES!!!

He’s thought this through.  He’s been running the steps over and over and over and over in his mind to the point he is starting to forget the details.  He thinks back to the Navy.  He remembers the standard operating procedures, the book resting on a stainless steel shelf.  Every god damn time we had to anything on that boat they would whip out a book of procedures.  While out to sea a Chief would stand up from his seat, lean towards a shelf holding several SOPs, and on one foot, unlatch the bar keeping the books from falling out in rough waters, grab it, latch the bar, collapse into his chair, unclip the black grease pen from his pocket, and ask us to recite the procedures in order.  Damn if we wouldn’t forget a step.  No matter how many times we had done them.  We did them dozens of times before I was escorted off the boat for punching LT Trimble in his fucking throat.

He’s not forgetting any steps today.  He opens his eyes, looks at himself in the mirror, smirks, shakes his head, looks down at the gun and looks up in the mirror in disgust at himself.  What are you doing man, what are you


“WHAT!?” He responds too loudly he knows it, but catches himself a too late.

“What?” He says again more softly this time overcompensating for the lashing.

“What are you doing in there?”

Her voice comes into him.  All her pain floods him.  All his actions and consequences weigh down on him heavier than the vest, heavier than the weapon he’s bought that’s going to solve so many problems and rectify so many wrongs.  Eyes closed he says to her, “I don’t know honey, I’m just thinking”

He already hears her heading down the steps. She doesn’t bother to ask what’s he’s thinking about, which is fine with him.  Down she goes, one at a time.  She can’t take them like a normal 10 year old.  They’ve made sure of that.  She has to hold onto the railing or spindle with each step.  Step Down.  Hold and let go.  Each damn step she has to do this.  Gingerly placing the heel of her now longer right leg first, with the left leg following it, flopping into the other painfully because of all screws, the metal rods. Each step, each of his 13 steps.  Both her hands grip, the knuckles white, tightening, bracing for the pain.  13 times.  Step, squeeze, wince, pain.    Step, squeeze, wince, pain. She’s fallen enough times that she knows she has to go down this way no matter how much it hurts her.   Everywhere there are steps, this is the process.  At School she’s always last.  Everytime, everywhere.   She doesn’t let him carry her.  She says it doesn’t hurt anymore.  “It’s ok daddy, I don’t mind.” She’s lying that it doesn’t hurt and he knows it. He’s powerless to do anything about it, Her pain that is.  She however has accepted it.

He swipes the freaking gun, scratching the dresser in the process and places it in the vest pocket which is specifically designed for this gun.  He steps towards the door, reaches up on the dresser for the can, takes the last swig, wipes the damn ring of sweat from the dresser with the cuff of his shirt, drops the can in the trash, turns the knob, looks down towards the landing in time to see her turn around, grimace a smile his way and complete the last two heart breaking steps.  He hates this.  He swallows hard and buttons his shirt on the way down the steps. He catches up to her as she limps her way towards the kitchen, he places his hand on her long brown haired head, itches her head a little and says, “I love you sweetie”

“Where’s the cheerios?”

“Same place as they always are kiddo.  Look we don’t have time anyway.  Let’s get moving.  I’ll grab us something at Dunkin.  I need some caffeine this morning anyway.  I didn’t sleep well.”

He’s reaching into the fridge grabbing the orange juice for her.  He steps to his left, over to the cabinet, holding the OJ in his right hand, his left hand is grabbing her Care Bear cup which sits alone in its space upon the 2nd shelf, the space reserved for her since she was 1.  She has to have Orange Juice, every day, in this cup, filled to the pink bear’s belly.

“Not up to his ears Daddy or she’ll drown!” She used to bark this at him before he learned how to do it right. He’s learned, most of these daily habits, and he’s fed into the obsessive compulsive idiosyncrasies she’s now developed.  It’s just easier to turn the bedroom light on and off 8 times each night, grunt as he moves down on his hand and knees to checks under her bed 9 different times, than it is to fight the screaming, the near perfect, ear splitting, immediate head ache inducing, pitch of a scream she will launch herself into if he doesn’t do it, “the right way.”

“I miss mom”

He wrenches the juice cap shut.  Grabs the bottle by the throat and throws it back in the fridge where it slides into and spills the uncorked bottle of white wine he didn’t finish from last night’s meal.  He doesn’t bother to wipe it up.  To hell with it. He closes the door and says, “I miss her too kiddo.  Look we gotta get going and I have a lot to do today”

He hurriedly steps down into the utility room ahead of her so he can catch her if she stumbles.  He grabs her jacket off the hook on the wall and helps her with it.  He has to help her do that too now.  Her latest back surgery hasn’t healed the way it was supposed to and for whatever reason it’s too difficult for her to pull it on.  Or maybe she just lets him do it because it too has become part of her ocd.  This ritual comforts her as much as it comforts him he imagines.

He’s so tired of thinking about the doctors and the bills that come with it.  Everything about this child, his child, reminds him of his mistakes. His mistakes as a father and a husband.   Everything he’s done up to this point today, yesterday, they all have come careening into his being.  Slamming into his thoughts and leaving him with no other options.  God, it was all so much easier when Cheryl took care of this.  He gets down on a bended knee to zip up her orange hoodie.  She puts an arm on his shoulder, looks at him while he focuses on the zipper and says, “I love you dad”

He stands up, opens the door, slaps the button to open the garage door, feels the vest shift, lets her step out first, feels the morning light pour in, he squints and stares out beyond the light, he exhales, looks out into the day, and thinks about what he’s planned for months and has ahead of him today, he pulls the utility door shut, allows the screen door to slam, thinks to himself, “she hated when it did that”, pats his vest and thinks to himself, maybe tomorrow this will all be different. She, he won’t have to live this way anymore.




Call me a dick, but I wouldn’t link to bloggers that bitched out of my site

The headline says it all.  It says I’m petty that’s a given.  For the first few months of a breakup I’m not ready to be friends with someone that was a constant pain in my ass and left the way they left.  I personally don’t care if you’re a Marshall from the long line of Marshall’s.  When you say you’re “out”.  Then you’re out.

Many of you know that Thurgood Marshall was a relative of mine. I come from a long line of people who fought like hell for every bit of privilege and freedom I have. I can’t be party to giving up a single inch of that; and making “allies” feel better about themselves is not my job. So you can find me writing, commenting and organizing for more responsive representation here at {Pink} Delaware now — hope to see some of my friends there and hope to make some new ones there as well!

I leave this place the way I found it — the Boys Club.

Cassandra and her gal pal Cat Woman no longer are at DL and have jumped over to Pink Delaware where they can exact their feminist ways without fear of being subject to the “boy’s club” that is DL.  But they don’t seem to have really left DL.  They comment here and there.  They certainly are doing it to get people to come to their new fox house.

But Jason and myself are different. He likes the idea of a podcast, I like actually doing one.  One day I’ll just up and do my own god damned podcast!  Jason, he likes keeping the peace, I like burning bridges.  He likes saying we should call our Senators and demand action, but then also says calling our senators and demanding action is fruitless.

Jason links to Pink Delaware  a lot.  I admire him for being a person that can rise above it.  I couldn’t.  I wouldn’t.  I’m petty.


Republicans are fucking pathetic.

They lied.  They all lied.  Pence Lied.  Trump lied.  The national security adviser lied, a former general none the less. A former general along with his son (working as his own chief of staff or I guess was…) helped spread conspiracy theories and held less then ideal views about Muslims.  He flat out lied.  Not misspoke, not misremembered, not couldn’t recall.  Lied.

What’s the story Republicans are going to push?  Of course they aren’t going to admit wrong doing or throw their fellow party members under the bus.  God no.  Party over Country has never been so fucking transparent.

“I expect for the FBI to tell me what is going on, and they better have a good answer,” House Intelligence Committee Chairman Devin Nunes (R-Calif.), who was a member of the Trump transition team executive committee, told The Washington Post.

“The big problem I see here is that you have an American citizen who had his phone calls recorded,” said Nunes, who announced Tuesday that his committee would probe the leaks.

They are more concerned about leaks.  Yes, fucking pathetic.  How low can you go as a party when you find out that prior to being sworn in people are secretly talking to the Russians, lying about it, trying to cover up the lies, and then lying about the people lying.  But the leaks, they are the big problem.  That needs to be investigated.  I don’t know if it’s ironic or not, but we are lying about communicating with Russia.  A nation that has been caught murdering it’s dissidents.  Russia’s Putin came to power because he offed political opponents and jailed musicians.  Here we have an elected official saying he is more concerned with leaks?  Isn’t this irony?

This is week 4 people. WEEK 4!

This is the Russians we are talking about. I know it’s no way to spin an argument, but let’s suppose for a second that this was Obama.  Week 4, this was Obama?  Are you fucking kidding me with this nonsense.  Say what you will about Democrats, but I don’t think all of them would be defending this and saying it’s the leaks, not the substance that matters here.

Week 4 Michelle Obama is living in Chicago.  Week 4 Obama is holding meet and greats with Prime Ministers and NFL owners at his private estate.  Week 4 and Obama’s hotel is being fashioned to house Department of Defense people and the costs of housing them will be charged back to his private business?  Week 4 and millions of dollars are being spent on and funneled into Obama’s private hotels and properties.  Could you even imagine the collective conniption on Fox News?

Republicans are worried about the leaks.  It’s sickening.  It’s disgusting.  Power.  It’s all about power and nothing about country.  You want to see how naked and on display they are?  This is it.  Week 4 and we have the executive branch’s nominees talking to another country , not just another country, but an enemy that does business with Iran and North Korea.  Prior to being sworn in the “to be” National Security Adviser is on the horn about Sanctions with the country accused of interfering in our elections, whose spies were kicked out of the country.  But, it is about the leaks?


“The much bigger issue is, what is the connection with Russia and the Trump administration? It’s not only how far up does it go – was the campaign in collusion?” said Rep. Jerrold Nadler (D-N.Y.).

Yes, this is the much bigger issue. But, it will become partisan.  Because = Power.


Did I miss that Vetting Didn’t work? Before we needed it to be Extreme?

Can someone tell me when the vetting process we were doing wasn’t good enough and we made the leap to needing Extreme Vetting?   Is there a more nebulous term than us needing “Extreme Vetting”?  I want to fucking scream at these people.  (truth be told I already scream, but they don’t hear me)


What was the vetting process before?  Did it not work?  What did I miss that it didn’t work?  Are we talking about the Bowling Green Massacre?  Have they just made this shit up?  YESSSSS!  Of course they did.  They fucking made it up.

Here’s how difficult it is already

But the reality is that the current vetting system is already pretty extreme: exhaustive, loaded with safeguards, enormously selective, and constantly being improved. It typically takes 18 to 24 months, but it can last as long as three years. It’s difficult to conceive of what kind of extra steps could be added to make it even more extreme.….

Trump’s refugee suspension is a solution in search of a problem

Trump’s defense of the executive order — which includes, most controversially, a 90-day ban preventing foreign nationals from seven majority-Muslim countries from entering the US — has been that it’s necessary to protect the country from nefarious foreigners who want to use the refugee program to sneak into the US and launch terrorist attacks.

Which is exactly true.  It’s a solution in search of a problem.