Trump, it is reported, has been planting the seed of The Gospel through out the World.
How? He tattoo'd the words, The Gospel, on a rather small appendage of his body. No. Not one of his hands or a pinky. Think smaller.
Stormy Daniels has seen The Gospel and had the seeds of The Gospel implanted in her. She says, 'I'll never be able to forget that moment. My life changed forever. I can never go back to being just another sex worker. I feel a deep shame. But, the more I talk about The Gospel, the stronger I feel.'
Other women witnessed The Gospel and felt the seed spreading in them. Some men call them liars and other names. Main Steam media outlets refuse to repeat the claims.
Oh, when will we all respect The Gospel?
PS. I'm joking. Their wasn't room for the tattoo. But there was transparency in the rubber.
Showing posts with label Donald Trump. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Donald Trump. Show all posts
Saturday, April 7, 2018
Friday, February 2, 2018
Bad joke
According to a fake new poll, 54 percent of Republican voters don’t believe Trump was the best choice for president, they wished they’d picked someone else. Kind of like when you go to buy a shirt. You see all these shirts, plain patterns, regular shirts. They look OK but not exciting. Then tucked in the middle of all these plain shirts, you see this totally awesome shirt. It’s bold. It’s different. It doesn’t play by the other shirts’ rules. You buy it, you get home, you try the shirt on, you look at yourself in the mirror and then your wife walks in and says, “What the hell are you wearing?”
Saturday, July 15, 2017
Secret Service logs for Trump Tower
Security requires screening access to parts of Trump Towers. Visitors must log in or register with Security. NYPD were involved in protecting that candidate.
Presidential candidates are offered Secret Service protections and the Secret Service fiercely guards against threats to candidates.
Threats. Even mail is screened.
So why haven't we seen a visitor list, provided by Security and the Secret Service, to document who visited Trump Tower?
That's another leak to be seen on a fake news headline tomorrow morning?
Maybe there's no record of secret meetings and the guests? Wouldn't that be more interesting?
Presidential candidates are offered Secret Service protections and the Secret Service fiercely guards against threats to candidates.
Threats. Even mail is screened.
So why haven't we seen a visitor list, provided by Security and the Secret Service, to document who visited Trump Tower?
That's another leak to be seen on a fake news headline tomorrow morning?
Maybe there's no record of secret meetings and the guests? Wouldn't that be more interesting?
Sunday, July 9, 2017
Me at the G20 - Boda Bing. Boda Boom
[My apologies to those about to be offended]
It started slowly with me being mistaken for a Republican psychiatrist by the Secret Service. That's an easy mistake to make. I'm white, male, and exit mental health facilities by walking backwards.
So Homeland Security whips me off a street corner near the White House. I try to explain my motivations behind my blogs posts and that whole thing with the backpack in the public meeting. No one really seems to listen. Most of them have one hand covering an ear while talking to their jacket cuff, keeping that hand clenched.
So I sit back in the plush leather seat of the limo and focus on giving my captors the militant, 'I'll never talk' stare. I'm tough. I'm from Indiana and there's nothing but corn there. No body talks to the corn. I'm holding my own. Mentally I'm repeating the Hoosier secret mantra, "I am the rogue and the tassel."
They break me quickly, like a twig with the classic ploy, "Would you like some Dansani?"
That's who it works. Without thinking, I'm suddenly saying, "Yes." Yes to everything with a thoughtful, little Sure thrown in.
So, in the middle of my one worded conversation, which never touches on that backpack thing, Wrist Talker 3 throws a black bag over my head. My fate seems sealed. It's a rendition to a third world prison.
I don't see the point in the black hood. I can hear the planes landing and taking off. Just as I start mouth breathing, I smell jasim. Sweet. Calming. Sleep inducing. Coma causing, Jasim scented black bag gas. I'm out.
I dream of hands on my body. A tape measure sizing me up for an orange suit. I feel the little footies placed on my feet. My vision returns, blurry. The world seems to swim. I see my mirror image. Gods! I look like Ivanka Trump complete with a sleeveless dress. In this dream, Ivanka stands beside me, her image in the mirror. We look like twins! Who knew?
She says something to Wrist Talker 4 who wears sunglasses. "There's no fracken way I'll ever sit in a chair after Daddy has been sitting in it. Why can't someone else in the family go? How about Tommy the Tongue, or Louie the lip? What about you? You go. If this is the best body double, Republican psychiatrist on the planet, he's going in."
Two guys lift me to my feet and frog march me through a door. The lights are too bright but I see a fat man with an orange face rise from a chair. I'm thrust into the chair. The chair stinks. The seat feels wet on my butt. Maybe they should have added a girdle to my outfit. I smile but instantly, I'm challenged. Maybe in Italian.
"What the fuck is going on here? Who the fuck is this?"
I hear myself breaking the deadly silence, "My name is Ben Sobel... -lioni. Ben Sobellioni. I'm also known as, uh, Benny the Groin, Sammy the Schnazz, Elmer the Fudd, Tubby the Tuba, and once as Miss Phyllis Levine."
Someone coughs. I hear the whispers. "It's Trump's daughter."
The blond guy with no shirt mutters in a bad Russian accent, "Bitch."
I give him the Hoosier stare and say, "Now is that polite? Is that nice? I'm tryin' to be nice over here. Do I go up to you and say, 'Hey, you're so-and-so, the Hard-On?'"
I hear some German woman shouting. There's a magic voice in my ear, translating. "What qualifies her to sit at this table. What does she know about world events?"
"I know 1957 was a big year. The Russians put that Sputnik into outer space, the Dodgers played their last game at Ebbets Field to say goodbye to Brooklyn, that guy shot Frank Costello in the head, and missed, and the Gallo brothers whacked Albert Anastasia in the barber shop of the Sheraton View hotel. It was total chaos. With Anastasia out of the way, Vito Genovese figures he's the big boss. But Carlo Gambino and Joe Bananas, they had other ideas. So they called a meeting. A big meeting. Huge! Bigly!"
Into the silent pause, I hear a Canadian voice. Or, what I think is a Canadian voice. In my peripheral vision, I see a good looking man, charming, well dressed. He smiles as he talks.
"Yes. Those are the bonafides we all expect, perhaps demand, for a Trump begat woman, raised in the filth of New York City, denied access to fresh air and the opportunity for good healthcare access."
A conversation starts at the far end of the table. The German woman asks me about the sleeveless dress. A Russian voice asks for more vodka. I smile at the world's leaders. I know where I am. This is the G20 meeting or the G20 minus One. Through the Jasmine haze, I remember who I am. The world stage beckons my Liberal voice, I cry out, "Covfefe!"
They ignore me.
Defeated, even in this dream world, I excuse myself. Wrist Talker 5 helps me from my chair. I rise with a wet butt but the chair had dried. The room smells better. Hands guide me through the door. The Ivanka Trump image confronts me.
"You talk to anyone about this you ... you motherfucker I'll fuckin' cut your fuckin' balls off I'll shove them up your fuckin' ass, I'll fuckin' bury you, I'll put fuckin' ice picks in your eyes, I'll chop your fuckin' eyeballs, I'll send them to your fuckin' family so they can eat 'em for dessert. You understand me?"
"You don't hear the word No a lot, do you?"
"Yeah. I hear it all the time but it's more like, 'No. Please. No.' So here's what I think you're going to do. See Wrist Talker 6? I would do whatever he says. If he wants you to talk, talk. I would get on all fours and bark like a dog. I would do whatever it takes. Smoke some joints! Drink some wine! Whatever it is, ... Where could you run? This is the time to be happy! Life is just too short!"
The world goes black and Jasmine tickles my nose. I wake up on a bench in Lafayette Park. My butt is still wet. The blonde wig slipped to one side. The Jasmine smells like piss. There's a taxi driver waving to he. I struggle over to his cab and lean in the window.
"Don't worry about it," He says. "Happens about once a month. Some straight white dressed like Ivanka Trump, sitting on that bench. Tourists used to take pictures of them. Once the D.C. police arrested one. Nothing happens."
I stutter, "W w what should I do?"
"Don't worry about it. Get in the cab. I'll drop you at a bar. Have a few drinks. And, next time ... ask for the girdle."
My apologies to Paul Vitti and Analyze This.
It started slowly with me being mistaken for a Republican psychiatrist by the Secret Service. That's an easy mistake to make. I'm white, male, and exit mental health facilities by walking backwards.
So Homeland Security whips me off a street corner near the White House. I try to explain my motivations behind my blogs posts and that whole thing with the backpack in the public meeting. No one really seems to listen. Most of them have one hand covering an ear while talking to their jacket cuff, keeping that hand clenched.
So I sit back in the plush leather seat of the limo and focus on giving my captors the militant, 'I'll never talk' stare. I'm tough. I'm from Indiana and there's nothing but corn there. No body talks to the corn. I'm holding my own. Mentally I'm repeating the Hoosier secret mantra, "I am the rogue and the tassel."
They break me quickly, like a twig with the classic ploy, "Would you like some Dansani?"
That's who it works. Without thinking, I'm suddenly saying, "Yes." Yes to everything with a thoughtful, little Sure thrown in.
So, in the middle of my one worded conversation, which never touches on that backpack thing, Wrist Talker 3 throws a black bag over my head. My fate seems sealed. It's a rendition to a third world prison.
I don't see the point in the black hood. I can hear the planes landing and taking off. Just as I start mouth breathing, I smell jasim. Sweet. Calming. Sleep inducing. Coma causing, Jasim scented black bag gas. I'm out.
I dream of hands on my body. A tape measure sizing me up for an orange suit. I feel the little footies placed on my feet. My vision returns, blurry. The world seems to swim. I see my mirror image. Gods! I look like Ivanka Trump complete with a sleeveless dress. In this dream, Ivanka stands beside me, her image in the mirror. We look like twins! Who knew?
She says something to Wrist Talker 4 who wears sunglasses. "There's no fracken way I'll ever sit in a chair after Daddy has been sitting in it. Why can't someone else in the family go? How about Tommy the Tongue, or Louie the lip? What about you? You go. If this is the best body double, Republican psychiatrist on the planet, he's going in."
Two guys lift me to my feet and frog march me through a door. The lights are too bright but I see a fat man with an orange face rise from a chair. I'm thrust into the chair. The chair stinks. The seat feels wet on my butt. Maybe they should have added a girdle to my outfit. I smile but instantly, I'm challenged. Maybe in Italian.
"What the fuck is going on here? Who the fuck is this?"
I hear myself breaking the deadly silence, "My name is Ben Sobel... -lioni. Ben Sobellioni. I'm also known as, uh, Benny the Groin, Sammy the Schnazz, Elmer the Fudd, Tubby the Tuba, and once as Miss Phyllis Levine."
Someone coughs. I hear the whispers. "It's Trump's daughter."
The blond guy with no shirt mutters in a bad Russian accent, "Bitch."
I give him the Hoosier stare and say, "Now is that polite? Is that nice? I'm tryin' to be nice over here. Do I go up to you and say, 'Hey, you're so-and-so, the Hard-On?'"
I hear some German woman shouting. There's a magic voice in my ear, translating. "What qualifies her to sit at this table. What does she know about world events?"
"I know 1957 was a big year. The Russians put that Sputnik into outer space, the Dodgers played their last game at Ebbets Field to say goodbye to Brooklyn, that guy shot Frank Costello in the head, and missed, and the Gallo brothers whacked Albert Anastasia in the barber shop of the Sheraton View hotel. It was total chaos. With Anastasia out of the way, Vito Genovese figures he's the big boss. But Carlo Gambino and Joe Bananas, they had other ideas. So they called a meeting. A big meeting. Huge! Bigly!"
Into the silent pause, I hear a Canadian voice. Or, what I think is a Canadian voice. In my peripheral vision, I see a good looking man, charming, well dressed. He smiles as he talks.
"Yes. Those are the bonafides we all expect, perhaps demand, for a Trump begat woman, raised in the filth of New York City, denied access to fresh air and the opportunity for good healthcare access."
A conversation starts at the far end of the table. The German woman asks me about the sleeveless dress. A Russian voice asks for more vodka. I smile at the world's leaders. I know where I am. This is the G20 meeting or the G20 minus One. Through the Jasmine haze, I remember who I am. The world stage beckons my Liberal voice, I cry out, "Covfefe!"
They ignore me.
Defeated, even in this dream world, I excuse myself. Wrist Talker 5 helps me from my chair. I rise with a wet butt but the chair had dried. The room smells better. Hands guide me through the door. The Ivanka Trump image confronts me.
"You talk to anyone about this you ... you motherfucker I'll fuckin' cut your fuckin' balls off I'll shove them up your fuckin' ass, I'll fuckin' bury you, I'll put fuckin' ice picks in your eyes, I'll chop your fuckin' eyeballs, I'll send them to your fuckin' family so they can eat 'em for dessert. You understand me?"
"You don't hear the word No a lot, do you?"
"Yeah. I hear it all the time but it's more like, 'No. Please. No.' So here's what I think you're going to do. See Wrist Talker 6? I would do whatever he says. If he wants you to talk, talk. I would get on all fours and bark like a dog. I would do whatever it takes. Smoke some joints! Drink some wine! Whatever it is, ... Where could you run? This is the time to be happy! Life is just too short!"
The world goes black and Jasmine tickles my nose. I wake up on a bench in Lafayette Park. My butt is still wet. The blonde wig slipped to one side. The Jasmine smells like piss. There's a taxi driver waving to he. I struggle over to his cab and lean in the window.
"Don't worry about it," He says. "Happens about once a month. Some straight white dressed like Ivanka Trump, sitting on that bench. Tourists used to take pictures of them. Once the D.C. police arrested one. Nothing happens."
I stutter, "W w what should I do?"
"Don't worry about it. Get in the cab. I'll drop you at a bar. Have a few drinks. And, next time ... ask for the girdle."
My apologies to Paul Vitti and Analyze This.
Friday, June 30, 2017
The real President of the United States.
"With Malice towards none, with Charity towards all."
These were the words of the First Republican President after 48 months of war, after being called a traitor, a murderer, the Black Republican, jackass, imbecile, the Illinois ape, and a baboon by the enemies who would kill him.
"I heard poorly rated Morning Joe speaks badly of me (don't watch anymore). Then how come low I.Q. Mike, along with Psycho Joe ... "
The words of perhaps the last Republican President after a television segment. With these and other words, we have discussed his fitness for the office. Now we should discuss how he is fit for removal from that office.
But, we cannot yet pardon him by removal. We must, before before pardon, continue the many investigations in collusion with Russia to determine the legitimacy of Trump, Pence, and the whole administration.
I remember the Nixon pardon ending the Watergate investigation. I remember how the Iran/Contra investigations ended when a Republican President gave pardons to former Cabinet members convicted and to others facing trial I will not have my children and grandchildren remember how we looked away from the harsh, post election accusations of Russia selecting the winner of the 2016 Elections.
Just as Lincoln sought a moral right and a godly justice, we must, like him, seek an end to mindless conflict, character attacks, and illegitimate government.
Trump begs for removal from office. Let the hand of Justice remove him, not the partisan expediency of politicians.
These were the words of the First Republican President after 48 months of war, after being called a traitor, a murderer, the Black Republican, jackass, imbecile, the Illinois ape, and a baboon by the enemies who would kill him.
"I heard poorly rated Morning Joe speaks badly of me (don't watch anymore). Then how come low I.Q. Mike, along with Psycho Joe ... "
The words of perhaps the last Republican President after a television segment. With these and other words, we have discussed his fitness for the office. Now we should discuss how he is fit for removal from that office.
But, we cannot yet pardon him by removal. We must, before before pardon, continue the many investigations in collusion with Russia to determine the legitimacy of Trump, Pence, and the whole administration.
I remember the Nixon pardon ending the Watergate investigation. I remember how the Iran/Contra investigations ended when a Republican President gave pardons to former Cabinet members convicted and to others facing trial I will not have my children and grandchildren remember how we looked away from the harsh, post election accusations of Russia selecting the winner of the 2016 Elections.
Just as Lincoln sought a moral right and a godly justice, we must, like him, seek an end to mindless conflict, character attacks, and illegitimate government.
Trump begs for removal from office. Let the hand of Justice remove him, not the partisan expediency of politicians.
Thursday, May 11, 2017
Putin gives Republican Party leaders Order of Lenin medals made of Fools Gold
Putin sent a dozen 'Order of Lenin' medals to the USA via FedEx. The Justice Department intercepted the package. The CIA refused to open and inspect the boxes. The package being on domestic soil, the job fell to the FBI.
Being smarter than a cat, the FBI refused to open the boxes saying, 'if we open the box, a cat dies. Nobody wants to kill a cat.'
A reporter shouting questions from the street corner nearest the potentially explosive boxes was arrested. Jelly Konrad, Republican leadership spokesperson denied any connection with the reporter's arrest. 'Yes,' she said, ' we know the reporter. He's a reporter. But, he wasn't reporting at the time of his arrest. This precludes the arrest from any violation of the reporting clause in the Constitution.'
Seance' Spicer twitted from under a rose bush that the reporter wasn't really a reporter because he wasn't reporting anything, just yelling about explosives. And, we can't have someone screaming bomb every time a box full of cats or maybe not full of cats is found by the Justice Department.
When asked why are there cats in the boxes, he repeated, 'There could be communist cats in the boxes. Maybe there aren't communist cats.'
While this exchange continued, a homeless man who looked a lot like Woody Harralson's dad, approached the boxes. Spectators, as no reporters could have been reporting what hadn't happened yet, said the man grabbed the boxes and began running down Pennsylvania Avenue.
Various reports by reporters reporting claimed the man had political motivations in stealing the boxes of cats that might not be in the boxes. Some heard him shout, "Wait 'til I get to the Grassy Knoll with this shit!"
A New England Patriot's linebacker who was not visiting the White House tackled the homeless man. That is when the boxes were dropped and broke open. The Capital police, the FBI, and Seance' Spicer threw their bodies over the broken boxes. Some reporters reported erroneously that Amy Shummer had been thrown onto the boxes. These reporters reported in a later report that it wasn't Amy. It was Melissa McCarthy.
Finally, a deep voice, perhaps that of a man speaking from the shadow filled area of the new parking garage said, 'It's not about pussy!'
We are awaiting a news Conference for pre-reporters at the Rose Garden. A preview of the topic confirms our worst fears.
'We cannot confirm or deny the existence of any communist cats at this time.'
Being smarter than a cat, the FBI refused to open the boxes saying, 'if we open the box, a cat dies. Nobody wants to kill a cat.'
A reporter shouting questions from the street corner nearest the potentially explosive boxes was arrested. Jelly Konrad, Republican leadership spokesperson denied any connection with the reporter's arrest. 'Yes,' she said, ' we know the reporter. He's a reporter. But, he wasn't reporting at the time of his arrest. This precludes the arrest from any violation of the reporting clause in the Constitution.'
Seance' Spicer twitted from under a rose bush that the reporter wasn't really a reporter because he wasn't reporting anything, just yelling about explosives. And, we can't have someone screaming bomb every time a box full of cats or maybe not full of cats is found by the Justice Department.
When asked why are there cats in the boxes, he repeated, 'There could be communist cats in the boxes. Maybe there aren't communist cats.'
While this exchange continued, a homeless man who looked a lot like Woody Harralson's dad, approached the boxes. Spectators, as no reporters could have been reporting what hadn't happened yet, said the man grabbed the boxes and began running down Pennsylvania Avenue.
Various reports by reporters reporting claimed the man had political motivations in stealing the boxes of cats that might not be in the boxes. Some heard him shout, "Wait 'til I get to the Grassy Knoll with this shit!"
A New England Patriot's linebacker who was not visiting the White House tackled the homeless man. That is when the boxes were dropped and broke open. The Capital police, the FBI, and Seance' Spicer threw their bodies over the broken boxes. Some reporters reported erroneously that Amy Shummer had been thrown onto the boxes. These reporters reported in a later report that it wasn't Amy. It was Melissa McCarthy.
Finally, a deep voice, perhaps that of a man speaking from the shadow filled area of the new parking garage said, 'It's not about pussy!'
We are awaiting a news Conference for pre-reporters at the Rose Garden. A preview of the topic confirms our worst fears.
'We cannot confirm or deny the existence of any communist cats at this time.'
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
Trump order roses for himself
Republicans wouldn't send him candy. He gets no roses from the men he fucks. So, he has to buy his own.
From: Me
To: Me
Message: I love you.
From: Me
To: Me
Message: I love you.
Sunday, January 29, 2017
Trump Bans
Just released via Twitter for immediate retort:
By executive order, by the power invested in me in the unrigged election where I won the popular vote by 'millions,' the following words are banned.
Ray-ban
Bananas
Slurban
Ameban
Urban
Goban
All these bans are banned until the current Mulban ban is banned. Until then, all words ending in ban will be replaced with Trumpban.
By executive order, by the power invested in me in the unrigged election where I won the popular vote by 'millions,' the following words are banned.
Ray-ban
Bananas
Slurban
Ameban
Urban
Goban
All these bans are banned until the current Mulban ban is banned. Until then, all words ending in ban will be replaced with Trumpban.
Friday, January 20, 2017
Education and the word on the street
In my street confrontation with my neighborhood friend, my friend bitched about how his wife, a teacher, was forced to work well into the night, usually in the basement while he slept.
He mentioned that all the Flowery Branch elite had fled the public schools leaving these kids that don't even know their daddies. He repeated that at least twice, These kids don't even know their daddies.
His suggestion? If we hear anyone talk about becoming a teacher, Beat them with a club. If they get up, beat them again. Keep beating them until they no longer want to be teachers.
Sounds like he wants to beat his wife, eh?
He mentioned that all the Flowery Branch elite had fled the public schools leaving these kids that don't even know their daddies. He repeated that at least twice, These kids don't even know their daddies.
His suggestion? If we hear anyone talk about becoming a teacher, Beat them with a club. If they get up, beat them again. Keep beating them until they no longer want to be teachers.
Sounds like he wants to beat his wife, eh?
Monday, January 16, 2017
Trump deletes Mossad from his friends list
Moving the Mossad another step towards oblivion, President Elect Donald Trump deleted the Mossad from his friends list, proving nothing by saying nothing.
The Mossad did not respond, clearly proof of its non-person-hood.
Trump clearly won the next step of his on going dispute with intelligence communities called, Making Them Disappear.
The Mossad did not respond, clearly proof of its non-person-hood.
Trump clearly won the next step of his on going dispute with intelligence communities called, Making Them Disappear.
Wednesday, January 11, 2017
Trump replaced with Russian double during sex party
It's over. Over. Done. Fini!
Unsubstantiated rumours from Helofaplace have not been confirmed as proving anything but if we believe the rumours never reported, ...
the Russians replaced Donald Trump during a sex party with a Cossack back in 1918 using a time machine invented by aliens!
Why 1918 and Trump and Cossacks? Huge hands! Yes, Huge Hands!
Lenin and Stalin, traveling in an alien time machine built to look just like the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile, not to be confused with the Anthony Weiner mobiles, visited several sex parties at a discotek owned by Samual W. Frank. While in Sam Frank's disco, bumping and grinding to McFadden & Whitehead's,' Ain't No Stopping Us Now,' Lenin said to Stalin,
... it should be a Russian sex party attended by some decadent real estate developers with small hands, orange hair, and huge debts.
Which is when Stalin reportedly said, 'Can you say Golden Showers?'
Stalin had his favorite Capitalistic pet dog, Peabody, fire up the Whackado machine for 2013.
Well, those details from 2013 will be published in an Elvis expose' entitled, 'Who Killed Elvis Pressley?' printed on the skins of Teaparty leaders.
But, Stalin purged Lenin into history and destroyed Peabody and the Whackado machine before returning to 1918 humming,
Unsubstantiated rumours from Helofaplace have not been confirmed as proving anything but if we believe the rumours never reported, ...
the Russians replaced Donald Trump during a sex party with a Cossack back in 1918 using a time machine invented by aliens!
Why 1918 and Trump and Cossacks? Huge hands! Yes, Huge Hands!
Lenin and Stalin, traveling in an alien time machine built to look just like the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile, not to be confused with the Anthony Weiner mobiles, visited several sex parties at a discotek owned by Samual W. Frank. While in Sam Frank's disco, bumping and grinding to McFadden & Whitehead's,' Ain't No Stopping Us Now,' Lenin said to Stalin,
There've been so many things that have held us down
But now it looks like things are finally comin' around, yeah
I know we've got a long long way to go, yeah
And where we'll end up.
... it should be a Russian sex party attended by some decadent real estate developers with small hands, orange hair, and huge debts.
Which is when Stalin reportedly said, 'Can you say Golden Showers?'
Stalin had his favorite Capitalistic pet dog, Peabody, fire up the Whackado machine for 2013.
Well, those details from 2013 will be published in an Elvis expose' entitled, 'Who Killed Elvis Pressley?' printed on the skins of Teaparty leaders.
But, Stalin purged Lenin into history and destroyed Peabody and the Whackado machine before returning to 1918 humming,
Shake your money maker
shake your money maker
Tuesday, December 13, 2016
Twinkies, Management fiasco or Labor Union Greed?
Some short time ago, 4 years, Twinkies faced extinction.
Management, investors, and the Market blamed greedy labor unions. The bankruptcy judge sold the company for roughly $400 million dollars.
Cheap.
Two bidders snapped up the company and recently sold their shares. Combined, they got a "return of about $1 billion on an initial equity investment of about $185 million." Those numbers come from the New York Times.
Now, I'm saying Bullshit on the management, investors, and Market analysis. No, labor did not kill the Twinkie in 2013. Bad management killed it.
Two companies turned less than $200 million into $1 billion in less than 4 years baking flour, sugar, water, eggs, whey and salt.
Wait! There's more. Here's another analysis of the deal with a creamy inner filling.
"Nowhere was it sweeter, perhaps, than at the investment firms Apollo Global Management and Metropoulos, which spent $186 million in cash to buy some Hostess bakeries and brands in early 2013.
Less than four years later, they sold the company in a deal that valued Hostess at $2.3 billion. Apollo and Metropoulos have reaped a return totaling 13 times their original cash investment."
So what did it take to do all that billions and billions in business?
"There continues to be strong demand for these products in the marketplace, and we feel we can capitalize on that with some fresh new marketing ideas and some more consistent sales efforts."
Some one sold the business way short of its value and cried crocodile tears as they cashed in some bonus checks, separation payments, and secret insider trading profits.
It's that Capitalism thing. "I got mine. You get yours. Let the Devil take the rest."
Management, investors, and the Market blamed greedy labor unions. The bankruptcy judge sold the company for roughly $400 million dollars.
Cheap.
Two bidders snapped up the company and recently sold their shares. Combined, they got a "return of about $1 billion on an initial equity investment of about $185 million." Those numbers come from the New York Times.
Now, I'm saying Bullshit on the management, investors, and Market analysis. No, labor did not kill the Twinkie in 2013. Bad management killed it.
Two companies turned less than $200 million into $1 billion in less than 4 years baking flour, sugar, water, eggs, whey and salt.
Wait! There's more. Here's another analysis of the deal with a creamy inner filling.
"Nowhere was it sweeter, perhaps, than at the investment firms Apollo Global Management and Metropoulos, which spent $186 million in cash to buy some Hostess bakeries and brands in early 2013.
Less than four years later, they sold the company in a deal that valued Hostess at $2.3 billion. Apollo and Metropoulos have reaped a return totaling 13 times their original cash investment."
So what did it take to do all that billions and billions in business?
"There continues to be strong demand for these products in the marketplace, and we feel we can capitalize on that with some fresh new marketing ideas and some more consistent sales efforts."
Some one sold the business way short of its value and cried crocodile tears as they cashed in some bonus checks, separation payments, and secret insider trading profits.
It's that Capitalism thing. "I got mine. You get yours. Let the Devil take the rest."
Wednesday, November 16, 2016
Trumps leaked email
Well, the Hillary emails were not leaked. They were hacked. Trumps remained secret. So what next in the email scandals to be?
Trump says he's not going to live in the White House. Hmmm.
So, if he doesn't live in the White House, how will he get his emails?
Trump says he's not going to live in the White House. Hmmm.
So, if he doesn't live in the White House, how will he get his emails?
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
Trump shocked by bathroom issues, fear of toilets, and
Yes, Donald, women use the restroom when needed.
So do I.
Maybe you have a private pisser with you where ever you go.
But, I use the public restroom when I'm traveling.
AND, we don't talk about it much. Well, maybe we talk about Republicans with a wide stance. But, mostly, regular people don't discuss the quality of the seat or the relationship an asshole has with single sheet TP. Just because it is a public restroom, doesn't mean there are no walls.
So try it some time, if you have the courage to stand in line, unzip yourself, and shake the last drop out before washing in your hands.
Other people do it.
Your whole thing about how your shit doesn't stink is bullshit. Which gets me to the punch line.
If you've been holding it in for all these years, no wonder you're full of shit.
So do I.
Maybe you have a private pisser with you where ever you go.
But, I use the public restroom when I'm traveling.
AND, we don't talk about it much. Well, maybe we talk about Republicans with a wide stance. But, mostly, regular people don't discuss the quality of the seat or the relationship an asshole has with single sheet TP. Just because it is a public restroom, doesn't mean there are no walls.
So try it some time, if you have the courage to stand in line, unzip yourself, and shake the last drop out before washing in your hands.
Other people do it.
Your whole thing about how your shit doesn't stink is bullshit. Which gets me to the punch line.
If you've been holding it in for all these years, no wonder you're full of shit.
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Let's have some real conversations about guns, violence, and what's best for our communities
I've heard a lot about the community forum on racial profiling.
So, let's chat. Hypothetical, of course.
So some white guy walks through a black neighborhood with his backpack. No one flinches. He stops and ask directions. People are helpful.
He enters a Methodist church by a side door during a public meeting. There are no seats in front. The meeting is in process. He's asked to move to the back. Okay so far.
He speaks to a couple people in the back, moves further into the room.
The backpack gets heavy and he shifts his position. He studies the people in the room and the panel. It's damn boring. Most of the panel isn't watching the room. Some one is speaking from the podium. Only the audience seems to listen.
The backpack gets heavier and the guy shifts again.
Three people on the podium have looked at him. A tall man, maybe the preacher of the church, is moving towards the back.
The preacher speaks to a few people. Someone, an elderly man, asks the guy if he wants a seat. The guy replies, 'Thank you. I'm fine. Thanks.'
The preacher is standing next to the guy so the guy puts the backpack down. Slowly. Carefully. Very carefully.
He speaks to the preacher, 'Can we talk over here?'
The preacher and the guy go in another room. The guy says, 'I don't think I fit in here.'
"No. Come with me.'
They start towards the front of the room, the minister says, 'Bring your bag.'
There's only one seat up front, next to the chief of police, a very friendly guy. Very friendly. As in, Hey. How are you doing. Good to see ya here.'
The guy sits quietly, hoping things will be fine. He's asked to stand up. He does. He's asked to repeat what he said in the other room. He does.
Now, no body asks him for ID. No one follows him as he leaves. No one inspects his backpack.
So what was in the backpack?
Cool-Aid. Red Cool-Aid. It doesn't matter. The Chief of Police didn't open it.
Now what if the guy had carried a loaded AK47 into the room as allowed by Georgia law?
What if the guy had a professional quality camcorder on his left shoulder like the shooter in Virginia?
More importantly, what if the conversation on guns and violence intensifies and deepens?
Change for the better in the community and more safety for the individual?
Or should our greatest national debate tomorrow be exactly what it was yesterday, 'Donald Trump's hair ... It's real!'
So, let's chat. Hypothetical, of course.
So some white guy walks through a black neighborhood with his backpack. No one flinches. He stops and ask directions. People are helpful.
He enters a Methodist church by a side door during a public meeting. There are no seats in front. The meeting is in process. He's asked to move to the back. Okay so far.
He speaks to a couple people in the back, moves further into the room.
The backpack gets heavy and he shifts his position. He studies the people in the room and the panel. It's damn boring. Most of the panel isn't watching the room. Some one is speaking from the podium. Only the audience seems to listen.
The backpack gets heavier and the guy shifts again.
Three people on the podium have looked at him. A tall man, maybe the preacher of the church, is moving towards the back.
The preacher speaks to a few people. Someone, an elderly man, asks the guy if he wants a seat. The guy replies, 'Thank you. I'm fine. Thanks.'
The preacher is standing next to the guy so the guy puts the backpack down. Slowly. Carefully. Very carefully.
He speaks to the preacher, 'Can we talk over here?'
The preacher and the guy go in another room. The guy says, 'I don't think I fit in here.'
"No. Come with me.'
They start towards the front of the room, the minister says, 'Bring your bag.'
There's only one seat up front, next to the chief of police, a very friendly guy. Very friendly. As in, Hey. How are you doing. Good to see ya here.'
The guy sits quietly, hoping things will be fine. He's asked to stand up. He does. He's asked to repeat what he said in the other room. He does.
Now, no body asks him for ID. No one follows him as he leaves. No one inspects his backpack.
So what was in the backpack?
Cool-Aid. Red Cool-Aid. It doesn't matter. The Chief of Police didn't open it.
Now what if the guy had carried a loaded AK47 into the room as allowed by Georgia law?
What if the guy had a professional quality camcorder on his left shoulder like the shooter in Virginia?
More importantly, what if the conversation on guns and violence intensifies and deepens?
Change for the better in the community and more safety for the individual?
Or should our greatest national debate tomorrow be exactly what it was yesterday, 'Donald Trump's hair ... It's real!'
Sunday, August 16, 2015
Idiots at the Gainesville Times
There are lots of idiots at the Gainesville Times. I'm not talking about the executives. This time.
This is from an old letter to the Editor, Gainesville Times.
So why revisit this letter from March 2009? In 6 years, nothing has changed. The ACLU still runs the country. We're still in bad trouble, whatever that means. Obama isn't the President. --- read the letter ---it says Obama is not president. Or the Commander in Chief. The writer also thinks the service of his family ... in WWII ... might have been wasted. Hell, I thought we won but I attended some Liberal public school that must have changed history.
But, thank God! The writer knows who he is as an American! I'm glad. For three paragraphs I didn't think the Mother Fucker had a point.
This is from an old letter to the Editor, Gainesville Times.
President can't make deals with our enemies
Saturday, I heard on one of the news channels that President Barack Obama stated that we are losing the war in Afghanistan. The reporter also reported that the president said that we need to be talking to the Taliban.
I cannot believe that a U.S. president, the commander in chief of our armed forces, would make those kind of statements. If the United States had a president like Obama during World War II, we would have lost that war in Europe and the Pacific. Those kind of statements alleged to have been made by Obama shows me he is not a leader or president, least of all a commander in chief.
The other people we have in Washington, Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid, are no better. Between our Washington leaders who have no backbone whatsoever and the ACLU, our nation is in bad trouble. Unless we have some real leaders step forward, our nation will not get out of the trouble we are in.
I had relatives serve in Europe, the Pacific, Vietnam, Korea, Iraq and currently in Afghanistan. I hope their service and the service of so many other brave soldiers was not wasted. I don't need to be reminded who I am as an American, but I think many of our national leaders do.
George J. Roshau
Gainesville
So why revisit this letter from March 2009? In 6 years, nothing has changed. The ACLU still runs the country. We're still in bad trouble, whatever that means. Obama isn't the President. --- read the letter ---it says Obama is not president. Or the Commander in Chief. The writer also thinks the service of his family ... in WWII ... might have been wasted. Hell, I thought we won but I attended some Liberal public school that must have changed history.
But, thank God! The writer knows who he is as an American! I'm glad. For three paragraphs I didn't think the Mother Fucker had a point.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
