Putin meets Trump and then says ...

"You're a fucking idiot. I wish Hillary had won."

Russian Revelations

Putin printed a new Chapter in the King Donald Bible, Russian Revelations.

Revelations 12.25.1 Never elect a President in a foreign country unless that country shares a contiguous border with Russia for those who would be leaders must be deceivers with a Fake Press.

Revelations 25.12.1 Repent before slaying your Enemies because you won't have time to eat the popcorn while they die.

Revelations 13.27.2 They blaspheme who in their works deny the past before the present falls behind tomorrow when a new email reality shall be first and last.

Revelations 72.9.1 When thee shyte gets real, make small lies for thy self must survive the Devil.

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.

Is Open Carry the new White Sheet.

I'm not a fan of Open Carry. I'm no fan of concealed carry or Stand Your Ground laws.

If someone feels the need to carry a gun for self protection, Fine. Let them and their actions stand an objective test and not be enabled by NRA like lobbyists.

So, I feel no surprise when the KKK in Virginia, home to former slave owner and Confederate General, Robert E. Lee, plans a public display of weapons in 'peaceful protests.'

The KKK and Peace Protests. I have never attended a KKK rally, complete with a Fiery Cross, White Hoods, Confederate symbols, and a Grand Dragon. Those events might have been urban legends but I don't think so. I'm sure those were held, sometimes in public places, with more than a little fiery violence. For all I know, they also rallied in public parks to stage lynching and fried chicken eating contests.

Now, I know where to go for a peaceful KKK rally and protest, if protest is the right word for intimidation.

Charlotteville, Virginia.

Here's a noble quote from one of the Knights, “It’s an open-carry state, so our members will be armed,” said James Moore, a member of the Loyal White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan."

So what purpose to this peaceful rally if not to intimidate or incite violence? Well, let's ask.

“The liberals are taking away our heritage,” Moore said. “By taking these monuments away, that’s what they’re working on. They’re trying to erase the white culture right out of the history books.”

Or, maybe I should restate the press release type of boilerplate message. "The KKK is protesting the Charlottesville City Council’s decision this year to remove a statue of Confederate Gen. Robert E. Lee from a public park and rename that park."

So which should we believe? Peaceful protest or the new version of Lynching on the Square.

Tomorrow's news? Open Carry is the New White Sheet.

Guns don't kill. People kill. Well, except for when ...

I played with guns as a kid. Real guns. Unloaded. Loaded. Rifles. Shotguns. Pistols, Fully automatic weapons.

I owned toy guns that looked just like the real thing including the Martian ray gun from the Bugs Bunny Cartoons.

So back to the title.

Guns don't kill. People kill.

Except for combat. Obviously. Humans made guns to kill more people faster during war. The butter knife has its purpose. The longer lasting light bulb shines brighter and longer. And, guns. Made to kill. But, if you want to argue that people kill, let's talk war. Again.

Barney Fife didn't fight in any wars and did just fine with one pistol bullet secured inside a buttoned shirt pocket. Today's military carries semi-auto weapons into combat. Mostly. But, dang, even a semi-auto pumps out death at a pretty high rate of speed compared to Barney's only bullet. In that shirt pocket. Closed with a button.

In combat, we can't have a buttoned down bullet delaying death. No. So our soldiers pop off a bunch of shots. Bombs, too. Seems like I've heard a rumor that our soldiers fire thousands of bullets without hitting or killing the enemy. So we miss a little. Okay, so we miss a lot.

Where do the misses go?

That's the mystery exception to Guns don't kill; People kill.

So unlike Barney's bloused bullet, Private Billy Blastoff pops off his thousand round quota in a combat zone and hits a few civilians. Now, he didn't mean to do it. No one calls it murder. No Patriot anyway. Nope. So how did it happen if a human didn't intend for it to happen?

Well, the gun did it. A perfectly normal thing that soldiers call, collateral damage. Sargent Carter didn't order Private Pyle to blast Baghdad Betty and her baby. The gun did it. Has to be the gun. Must be the gun. Can't be anything else.

Cause when a baby gets shot, through an apartment wall in a city like Chicago, it was a bad guy who did. The wrong kind of person to own a gun.

In combat, it was the gun. Unless we want to be ethical and call it murder. The wrong kind of person with a gun. A bad guy.

Here's my point, the gun doesn't care who owns, who points it, or who dies. It just kills. Humans provide the labels depending on philosophy.

Back when I was a kid, playing with real and toy guns, I knew that only the bad guys died and the good guys always won. Now, I'm grown the my Martian death ray retired. I know what others deny. Guns kill innocent people despite the platitudes and philosophies.