Unlike all of England, Americans of sound mind were not “desperately waiting” to learn the name of the princess born last Saturday to Prince William and Kate Middleton.
But now we know. The second child of Bill and Kate, fourth in line to the throne, will embrace her life of inherited privilege as Charlotte Elizabeth Diana.
As the kid comes to self-awareness she will be told she is someone very special, a princess of royal blood, sentenced to a life of luxury and privilege financed entirely by the British taxpayer.
As a human who believes – nay, who knows – that only God is worthy of a curtsy or a bow, I’ve always mocked the British for not ridding themselves of that royalty crap years ago. That people should be honored for no reason other than an accident of birth is ludicrous on its face.
Royal blood? Please. As my Old Man was fond of saying, “Kiss my royal American butt!”
I have changed my mind. I think the Brits cling to their royals simply because it’s good theater – a long-running Broadway play that serves as a welcome diversion in a dreary world…
“Have you heard the latest about Prince Harry?”
“No! What has that randy young rascal done now?”
So…what the hell. Bill and Kate have birthed a new little princess – Charlotte Elizabeth Diana.
Good Luck, your highness.
But thank God for George and the Revolutionary War.
So now it turns out that from 2009 to 2013, foreign governments and companies seeking favors from our State Department (Hillary ran that) gave hundreds of millions to the Clinton Foundation (Bill ran that).
Among all the favors was a deal orchestrated by Bill, and signed off on by Hill, that gave Russia control of the world supply of uranium – including 50 percent of America’s uranium production. (That’s a national security issue, of course, but not to worry…the Clinton Foundation and Vladimir Putin have our backs.)
But just what is the Clinton Foundation? Joe Metuzzio, a plumber recently hired to install 24-carat gold fixtures throughout Bill and Hillary’s mansion in New York state, may have provided a clue.
“I had to take one of the elevators down to the basement of the mansion,” Metuzzio told a reporter.
“Joe,” the reporter asked, “by the basement you mean under the foundation of the house?”
“Yeah, man, under the Clinton Foundation. So I get off the elevator under the Clinton Foundation, and there was this walk-in bank vault that covered maybe an acre. Biggest damn vault I ever saw.”
“Can you describe it to us, Joe?”
“Sure. Over the door, which was standing
open, was this giant brass sign that said ‘The Clinton Foundation.’ It had a huge smiley face on one side, and an oil painting of Mr. and Mrs. Clinton on the other. They were smiling like the smiley face – and both giving the finger.”
“And what was inside the vault, Mr. Metuzzio?”
“Stacks of hundred dollar bills,” the plumber said. “From floor to ceiling as far as the eye could see. There were gold bricks, too…more than I could count. This Clinton Foundation thing…just what does it do with all that money and gold?” Metuzzio asked.
“What any foundation does, Joe,” the reporter said. “The Clinton Foundation holds up the Clinton house.”
They think they know all about police and police work. The network and cable pundits, the politicians, the folks who watch endless cop movies and TV cop shows written by people who watch endless cop movies and TV cop shows.
Then they see some twisted barely-trained member of the Podunk PD in South Carolina gun down a fleeing felon for no reason – and now they think they know even more about cops…
Buncha crazy bastards. They all need to be fitted with body cameras – all of them, all across the land. How else to protect the poor persecuted minorities from those crazy bastards with badges?
A rose is a rose by any name, but not the police. The quality of law enforcement – let’s compare it to football – ranges from junior college teams to the NFL.
I played for an NFL-level department, and there are hundreds like it across the USA.
On a fall day in the late 70s almost 3,000 people took the written test for the Phoenix PD, all vying for just 40 openings on the department. The top-scorers then went through a grueling physical fitness test, an FBI background check that reached into our teenage years and a polygraph that dipped into our souls.
Of the 40 recruits that showed up on January 10th, 1977 for class 108, only 22 would pin on the badge five months later. The goal of the people who trained us was to get the quitters to quit.
Fit us with body cameras? Have at it.
During my 21 years on the street – from patrolman to lieutenant –I never took a bribe or knew anyone who did. I never kicked the crap out of anyone who didn’t dearly deserve it. And even when presented with several life-threatening situations where killing someone would have been deemed “a good shoot” – I held my fire and still got the job done. Just like thousands of other cops.
Body cameras? Whatever. If you want to clean up corruption in America, let’s fit the politicians with body cameras – all the way from city mayors to U.S. senators.
Before the sun arose on the sabbath Mary Magdalene went to the sepulcher, but lo, when she entered she found the cage door open and the body gone.
As she began to cry, a young man in a shining robe and a gay bonnet splashed with flowers said to her, “Woman, why weepest thou?”
“They have taken away my bunny,” Mary said, “and I know not where they have laid him.”
“Fear not,” the angel chuckled. “The Resurrected Bunny has awakened and hopped away, but before leaving he laid colored hardboiled eggs and hid them hither and yon.”
“Am I to hunt these eggs?” Mary asked.
“Yes, my child. From this day forward you and all the children will honor Easter by hunting colored eggs and eating ham.”
That’s how badly Christian holy days can get screwed up.
The celebration of Christ’s birth has become the greatest retail extravaganza of the year, presided over not by the man from Nazareth, but a fictional toymaker living with elves in a cold climate. The death of that same Christ then became associated with an egg-laying rabbit. A rabbit, for godsake.
The resurrection of Jesus was the most momentous event the cosmos will ever know. It provided proof of, and the path to, eternal life for every human wise enough to embrace it.
Granted, we were not unhappy during those billions of years the world turned without us. But then we were born and everything changed. We’ve gotten to see the big city and the bright lights…and the fear we may never see them again is what the fear of death is all about.
Easter Sunday erased that fear forever. The big city will never crumble, the bright lights will never dim.