Unvarnished

 Let’s begin today’s story like every other one available here: with the truth.

 

Serial Liar-in-Chief, Joseph Robinette Biden

President Joseph Robinette Biden has been lying to every American since he entered public service in 1973.  His introduction to someone other than himself being responsible for his salary, and the truth, has been relished by him ever since.

 

Riding the coattails of other politicians for nearly fifty-years has proven very lucrative to him over those five decades of sucking on the guvment teat.

 

But to remain there with money, housing, and sustenance, he needs and uses the available resources to the maximum.  And use he does.

 

One thing in particular that Biden enjoys doing – along with his latest Press Secretary, Kareem Jean Pierre – is tag team one another to avoid being trapped in one of the copious fallacies squirting out of their crooked little mouths.

 

One excellent example of lies repeated often enough that they become the truth, is the one concerning America’s bout with inflation.  Inflation is a pre-set, pre-defined conclusion that reads: it is, according to Oxford Languages Dictionary, “a general increase in prices and fall in the purchasing value of money.”

 

Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?

 

However, this definition is more generously applied to the economy over a period of one-quarter – three months.  That’s quite a long time of you are without work, transportation, sound housing, and food.

 

President Biden is currently making $400,000 per year, as President of the United States; that’s a lot of money if you don’t figure in the kickbacks from Ukraine and China for military arms, ammunition, planes, tanks, and our desperately needed oil.

 

Before that, he was raking in about $200,000 a year as Vice President under our first African president Barack Hussein Obama.

 

Biden also served for decades as a state Senator from his home state of Delaware for even more decades.  His salary during those demanding times brought home roughly $150,000/year.  And with all that income, he was able to maintain several beach front homes and expensive cars.  He and Dr. Jill Biden (who still cannot write a prescription for Oxycodone,) reported a gross income of $610,702, paying $150,439 in federal taxes, reported Newsweek.

 

It’s hard to believe this guy was able to parlay this paltry sum into his now-reported wealth stands at…well, we don’t exactly know because according to Newsweek, his tax returns have disappeared.  Yep.  Pretty inconvenient, but that’s his story, and he’s sticking to it.

 

Here’s the rub: President and Dr. Biden seem to delight in claiming how great the economy is.  It isn’t.

 

Just last week, the President claimed he was doing such a bang-up job with the economy; there would not likely be a recession, he added.  Further, he said prices were dropping so dramatically that he was afraid we didn’t have numbers that went that low.

 

Butter is at an all-time high of $8/pound, bologna is $5.49/pound, and gasoline is hovering about the $3.50/gallon range.  All seem pretty acceptable to Moneybags Joe.

 

Even chicken eggs reached a new high of roughly 42¢ each; that translates into $5/dozen eggs.  (Here’s some trivia for you: In the entire world, about 1,000,000,000 chickens are killed for meat, everyday.)

 

But not fudging the figures like the Biden Organized Crime Family, the world has recently experienced a bout with avian flu which demands the destruction of affected chickens and their eggs.  This action has caused a serious void in the poultry world.

 

Still, Biden believes the unemployed family in Nebraska – who should be “coding” for the Biden Administration, but remain unemployed, should have no problem making their rent, mortgage, car payment, credit card bill, fuel bill, food, cell phone bill, and food expenditures.

 

So with a stupid grin only someone who has the IQ of a hammer could muster, Biden regularly insists all is well with the economy.  And any hiccup is the result of Vladimir Putin and Donald Trump.

 

In order to reduce the rate of inflation domestically, Biden was informed – by economists – to stop spending money, which thereby dramatically causes the inflation rate to rise. 

 

His solution?  Spend even more money by paying college snowflakes to take classes in 15^th Century French Poetry, or Advanced Women’s Studies, or White People Hating White People for Being White.

 

Sounds pretty superior, but I see no reason to spend good money after bad to merely mask the Biden Organized Crime Family’s cover up of spending money and sending armaments to sleazy grifters in Ukraine.  How much money in arms and cash is enroute to Ukraine’s Vlodomyr Zelenskyy?  Glad you asked.

 

While this smarmy cover up of spending by the mainstream media continues, my best guesstimate is $150,000,000,000, in arms, ammunition, rockets, jets, tanks, and cash money.

 

And regularly, on television news, radio news, and the interweb, equally nebulous numbers are given by former U.S. Generals whose expertise is only exceeded by their ambitions as media whores.

 

Suddenly, after their multi-decade careers end, these uniformed sycophants crawl out of their closets to offer “expert advice.”  Unfortunately, during their tenure in guvment service, they didn’t want to rock the boat.  Now come the book deals, television appearances, and lecture circuits.

 

And we have arrived at the culmination of this essay about the costs of everything from gas to eggs to Abrams tanks.  It’s all about feathering nests for retirement; screw every other American. 

 

That’s the unvarnished truth.

Words

 There’s a radio talk show host named Chris Plante who often uses the phrase, “They use the words, but don’t know what they mean,” when he refers to politicians and wokesters among the living.

 

Plante has been a staple of Washington, DC’s WMAL radio station for many years and tells the unvarnished truth Monday through Friday, peppering his three-hour show with profound takes on current news, plus added levity to assist with digestion.

 

Today, I’m borrowing that phrase to help us navigate the oversaturated world of “victimhood.”

 

Our first stop is Salt Lake City, Utah, when back in 2018, an 18-year old attended her final high school prom.  Keziah Daum located her perfect dress at a vintage clothing shop, appreciating its style and lines and color, all of which accentuated her youthful charm.  I would describe it as a kimono.

 

Keziah Daum and her qipao

She proudly posted photos of herself wearing this dress on Twitter, hoping to share her glee; unfortunately, that didn’t travel as far as Keziah had hoped.  Evidently critics who often surface to make themselves sound educated began bandying the words “cultural appropriation,” as a means to chastise Keziah.

 

At least one detractor posted a vulgarity, accusing Keziah of not even knowing the proper name of her dress which is appropriately called a “qipao.”  Who knew?

 

This young lady apologized and groveled for her love of this qipao, and wearing it with style; alas, the on-line torture continued.  That ought to be a lesson for her to ignore cultures other than hers.  By the way, if that qipao is so sacred and germane to the Chinese culture, I suggest they burn them rather than resell them after they are no longer wanted.

 

Let’s segue to June 2020, when pious United States Senators and Congresssleazes donned Ghana kente cloth for a photo op during the Saint George Floyd riots.  I’m pretty certain Nancy Pelosi – who couldn’t locate Ghana on a wall map – only wore her kente cloth stole for virtue signaling, not necessarily for style, as Keziah wore her qipao.

 

Ghanaians didn’t crawl out of the ceiling cracks to protest this phony display of Kabuki Theater by Pelosi along with Chuck Schumer, to “victim signal” the damage to their hearts, minds, and souls.  It was just another scam perpetrated by professional scammers.

 

Just the other day I also heard more disturbing news, this time coming from the world of fine arts.  It seems an American Sign Language interpreter was fired for being white.  Yep, you read that right.  A white guy was fired for being white.

 

A Broadway production of “The Lion King” entered the “Enough Already” arena when this play turned into a dumpster fire over the race of an interpreter.  Keith Wann was asked to fill in for a minority sign language interpreter being used in this play.

 

According to WCTI News 12, there were three minority interpreters working on this play when, by chance, two of whom were not available when Wann received an email explaining how because he had worked with this production company before, he would be a good fill in.

 

A few days after accepting the gig, Wann received an email elucidating why Wann would not be used; Wann is white, and the replacement for him was black.  Amen.

 

Wisely, Wann is now embroiled in a lawsuit over discrimination based on race.  But here’s the rub: The Lion King is an African-oriented cartoon and, so, should employ only Africans.  Uh, huh.

 

As an aside, I’m not sure why Africans Nancy Pelosi and Chuck Schumer were not given roles in this stage production, given their Ghana heritage, however there’s still time.

 

But having people of varying races portray other races is nothing new.  The popular Bing Crosby movie, “Holiday Inn,” is a feel-good Christmas flick about a retired general who purchases an inn that is only open on holidays.  Hence, the name.

 

As the movie progresses, all major holidays are celebrated including Lincoln’s Birthday, once a federal holiday.  During this early idea of a dinner theater, Bing Crosby appears as a grateful freed slave.  It should be noted that Crosby is white, while his stage character was black, thereby requiring blackface makeup.  I’ll stop writing until you awaken from your coma.

 

This movie was made in 1942 and contained blacks acting as a beloved house maid and her children.  Recent interweb reviews include those easily offended who largely would like to see this movie remade without the “offensive racist” depictions causing shuddering during the Lincoln’s Birthday scene.

 

While that sounds virtuous, the entire movie cast is now dead, Abraham Lincoln no longer has a federal holiday honoring him, and racism – in general – is now, well, subjective.

 

Back in 2016, a place called Gibson’s Bakery in Oberlin, Ohio, found itself in a quandary.  Several black Oberlin College students made their way into Gibson’s and wound up stealing bottled wine.

 

Caught red-handed, these proud black women refused to apologize, opting for very public boycotts and demonstrations.  Gibson’s business faltered after Oberlin College itself took up the cause of anti-discrimination against the bakery.

 

A trial resulted in an award of $36,590,000, to be paid to Gibson’s Bakery’s owners, because the words protestors, as well as Oberlin College officials, used in an effort to smear Gibson’s.

 

Of course this case was not about race, but rather about shoplifting and associated slandering and libel based on fake claims of discrimination.  Still, the mere charge of racism should have been enough to stop this juggernaut in its tracks; alas, it wasn’t.

 

As has been evident throughout history, using the language to control the conversation through redefining words is both sleazy and dangerous.

 

And for our last stop, visiting another movie whose second iteration was desperately needed has discovered more turmoil that must be address in the court of public opinion.

 

Evidently, a movie titled “Avatar 2: The Way of the Water,” was recently released in theaters to boffo reviews, reflected in their box office take.  Everything was going along ‘swimmingly,’ (See what I did there?) when someone with too much time and too little life decided to point out the movie’s shortcoming.

 

This latest Avatar movie is comprised of all computer generated characters – in a cartoonlike fashion – with voice-overs done by actors.  The characters are largely freaky in appearance, wearing blue skin.  Clearly these are inaccurate depictions of anyone or anything I’ve ever seen, unique to the Avatar series and associated merchandise.

 

The gist of this fantasy movie is that futuristic travelers are searching for a more habitable planet as Earth’s resources are becoming depleted.  This effort finds the blue humans colonizing a newly discovered planet previously pristine much like the Christopher Columbus’ discovery of America.

 

Still, those few malcontents who complained, citing the racism and land appropriation this movie apparently glorifies, remain unapologetic.  They don’t see a fantasy movie, computer graphics, or a well-written script.  Rather, they see another axe to grind.

 

But here’s the rub.  Blacks get upset when an actor dons black face, Asians get angry because a second hand dress was worn to a high school event, and voice-overs for cartoons and animated movies are frowned upon for theft of cultural appropriation.  On the other hand, when blacks proudly steal historical characters, such as Alexander Hamilton, they are applauded are creative and innovative.

 

All of these examples of chafing – imagined and actual – need to end because each complaint helps recall the proverb of the Boy Who Cried Wolf.  And I, for one, am no longer paying attention to these whiners.

A Perfect Sport

 Recently, my sainted wife and I had company over for dinner – company who was not quite as informed as we.

 

This dinner guest began the conversation with questions about “woke culture,” which almost immediately caused her eyes to glaze-over, creating a coma-like appearance from the answer.

 

Soon thereafter I took mercy upon her and stopped talking, but she insisted on delving even further into current events.

 

Keep in mind I’m not terribly athletic, but our company attempted to tap my brain for information about the sudden explosion of sports.

 

The world has just finished with the unbelievably breathtaking display of FIFA athletes exhibiting their physical prowess and cash-rich sponsors. 

 

FIFA, if you’re interested, stands for Federation Internationale de Football Association, according to the interweb.  Evidently, this is the association that represents international soccer.  Unfortunately, why the word “soccer” is not included in the federation title is a complete mystery.

 

In any case, eventually the conversation gravitated from soccer-mania to other sports.  I’ll refer you back to paragraph four, above.  Not being much more than a spitting image of Tom Selleck – without any associated athleticism – I am more of a thinker; my hat size is proof positive of that.

 

So when we transitioned to her next query, “What is pickleball?” I was prepared.

 

Hearing so much about pickleball lately virtually made me an expert on this fledgling sport.  I patiently explained what I’ve been seeing on television, reading in old folks’ magazines, and hearing snippets within the old-fart community, slowly and distinctly, so there would be little chance for her misperception.

 

In essence, I conveyed my understanding of pickleball as a hybrid of ping pong, tennis, volleyball, and sweating.

 

It uses paddles rather than racquets, is played on a smaller hard-surface court, is divided by a net, and will somehow, eventually, involve drinking adult beverages.  Still, the apparent draw to this Frankenstein-like activity is that it was designed to be played by senior citizens.

 

I immediately switched on the television and located all sorts of sporting events including the ones nobody watches, as well as others I didn’t even know were considered sports.

 

Passing through sports channels I noticed one had a program on darts, international poker, women’s basketball, competitive bass fishing, and something called “cornhole.”

 

Cornhole caught my eye because my neighbor - who is even less active than I am – built some cornhole boards and actually plays the game.

 

Cornhole uses some plywood fashioned into sloped platforms, supported by two legs, containing a hole.  Not unlike horseshoes, each of two teams of two people toss beanbags from a distance in an attempt to get their beanbags into the other person’s board hole.

 

Evidently, the only real difference between cornhole and horseshoes is the length of time before a fistfight breaks out.

 

I know.  I know.  It sounds riveting.  And that’s why they nationally broadcast a sports show dedicated to this awe inspiring effort to waste even more precious time.  But I digress.

 

As luck has it, the last three hours of an international pickleball tournament was being televised, and so I felt this was a golden opportunity to punish our company.  And punish her, I did.

 

Just as I described, the court was small, racquets were unique, scoring was nonsensical, and the participant’s clothing made them look as though they were taxi cabs – decorated with numbers, their name, and plenty of advertising.

 

It was at this point she asked how this could be considered a sport for the elderly.  This particular tournament featured youngsters – people born well after the Civil War – rather than spry, fit 20-somethings.  Alas.

 

As our guest was complaining how she was likely unable to play this neo-sport, my mind began wandering, perhaps as a self-defense tactic.

 

My memories took me back to days of yore – a time when suddenly, the federal guvment felt it necessary to outlaw the funnest games and toys.

 

Vintage Jarts from 1961, commanding
the princely sum of $150

Dad had just purchased a new yard game, likely for the Independence Day celebration; it was a game called “Jarts.”  Jarts consisted of two plastic rings, along with four Jarts – roughly 18-inch long oversized darts, made from plastic, sporting a sturdy pointed, metal tip.

 

Again, like horseshoes, the rings were to be spaced a number of feet apart.  One person got two Jarts of the same color, to differentiate them from your opponent’s.  They were then tossed high into the air with hopes your Jarts land inside the ring.

 

It seems as though Darwin’s theory of evolution was still alive and well.  The less intelligent attempted to modify Jarts into a game of ‘pitch and catch.’  It didn’t work as well as some had hoped.  The federal guvment decided Jarts be outlawed to protect Americans from themselves, the only others who were for the Jarts ban were civil lawyers.

 

But it was during this personal mental drift that I thought, “Perhaps I, too, could invent a game that might provide a sense of activity combined with a modicum of danger.”

 

Picture this:  Two people versus two people on a carpet of beautifully green lawn.  There, within a chalk lined field of 20 x 20 feet would be placed 12 varying colored, two-foot wide rings.  The rings would consist of 6-red, and 6-yellow, with a color assigned to a team.

 

The players would toss their lawn projectiles into the air attempting to strategically get their darts to land inside the colored ring that corresponds to their dart.  Of course, the opposing team would be able to prevent that if they were able to catch them!

 

Sure, it sounds easy.  But here’s the rub: running to and fro across the manicured field is fairly easy for those athletic youngsters.  The handicap would come in the form of each player wearing swim fins.  The excitement borders on absolute levity and curiosity.

 

Normally my brilliant ideas are kept under wraps, but I this case, I’m offering it for consideration to anyone with the drive to create a real sport that could eclipse soccer.

 

You’re welcome.

Defining Moment

 Nearly every day someone, somewhere, “discovers” a new definition for something.

 

Before I was allowed to leave the house on my tricycle, I had to learn – Read: memorize – our home phone number, address, and names of my parents.  Unbeknownst to me, that was critical to being able to reunite me with my family in case of becoming lost or being kidnapped.

 

Even at that tender age of probably three or four-years old, I knew the real names of Mommy and Daddy, as well as the difference between the two.

 

Throughout subsequent years I became interested in sports, cars, girls, and girls, in that order.  To me, it was a natural progression of living in a household with Daddy as the man, and Mommy as the woman.  It was pretty succinct.

 

Each of them had tasks seemingly specific to their sex; yard work, auto-related jobs, remodeling, and working outside of the home were Dad’s fields of expertise, while Mom concentrated on cooking, cleaning, shopping, and keeping us on-schedule.

 

It seemed to work, and was not at all unique to our family.  Virtually every other family on our block functioned similarly, and they, too, appeared to live well and enjoy life.  Occasionally the moms would help the dads with raking, and sidewalk sweeping, as dads assisted moms with peeling vegetables, grilling, as well as changing bedding and linens.

 

Then, suddenly things changed.  Most all moms found work outside the home to earn more cash and make life more lucrative.  It would prove to be an important decision as retirement age was quickly nearing, demanding more cash than “the system” would provide.

 

By this time, we kids were older and barely noticed Mom was gone while my sister and I were exercising more freedom while demonstrating responsibility.  This all felt natural.

 

Now, too, we were too old for toys.  But as previously stated, my sister gravitated to dolls; she wanted them to have more clothes and learned to sew, as a result.

 

I was interested in trucks, bulldozers, and pretending I was both a cowboy and soldier, during my formative years.

 

Not long thereafter, though, something arose from nowhere: women’s liberation.  Apparently lots of women were not liberated and needed to be.  For some mysterious reason the cry among women was “Burn the bras!”  And while this seemed fine with me, it was also perplexing.

 

Women changed themselves while changing the American way of life, and even the world, all because of a perceived slight.

 

Divorces skyrocketed as women left home to “find themselves.” Upon leaving, they needed vehicles for more independence causing vehicle prices to skyrocket, as well.

 

Younger children suffered, too.  Almost immediately there were no at-home moms, who also served as baby sitters.  Baby sitters became the latest, greatest employment opportunity.  Unfortunately, those baby sitters often operated without regulations or guidance from the parents themselves.  Remember that baby sitters were largely not free, requiring more money in addition to the higher vehicle prices. 

 

All the while, those toys changed, too.  Boys were encouraged to play with something called “action figures.”  It seems as though action figures is another way to say dolls for boys.  G.I. Joe was one of the first, I believe because of the seemingly endless Vietnam War.

 

The original Easy Bake Oven

Another toy that demanded changes was the Easy Bake Oven.  This toy was initially targeted at girls allowing them to bake real cupcakes in a plastic box and light bulb.  To make boys more effeminate, in my opinion, the Easy Bake Oven was redesigned to appeal to boys as well as girls.

 

So, it went for decades with more and more girls buying pink and tools and firearms (yep, you read that right,) specifically marketed toward them; boys were targeted by manufacturers hawking “girl toys” in an apparent effort to blur the lines of gender making everyone “equal.”

 

And blur they did.  After a few decades of this bastardization we have arrived at a place that would largely be foreign to people like my now-late parents.  Of course most of these changes-cum-legislation is fad based, most of which will be changed faster than you can say, “Lawsuit!”

 

Still, the residuals live.  We regularly find ourselves applauding “firsts.”

 

The first ___________ (you fill-in the blank) is where the hoopla begins.  It’s no longer the first person to fly into space, rather it’s the first woman, first African-American woman, first amputee-of-color, first American Indian meteorologist, first lesbian, first Puerto Rican, first handicapped, first Episcopalian, first transgender, first left-handed midget, first non-binary cisgender…

 

It’s clear that rather than uniting people though their strengths we have breached the crest where we are now dividing because of trying to homogenize people.  And now girls are not girls, boys are not boys – in fact, they can be whatever they want to be on a whim.

 

Title IX was an effort to include everyone through sports programs in schools.  After years of providing equal opportunities for both sexes, the anointed among us have decided to let lawyers overrule doctors in deciding the sex of an individual.

“What?” you say.  Indeed.  So that everything is fair to everyone, a school permitted a boy who identifies as a girl to swim on the girl’s swim team.  This sexually confused swimmer has been handily winning meet after meet over his teammates, much to the chagrin of the losing girls.

 

Lawsuits failed to settle this biological tornado because no one wants to be called a sexist.  And so, once again, society gets what it asked for: fairness through being unfair.

 

Did this gender-fluid swimmer play with action figures or Easy Bake Ovens as a small child?  I don’t know.  But it seems awfully convenient he/she/it discovered a sexual identity change once it became beneficial to receiving scholarships.  Wink, wink.

 

Behavior is learned – just as I learned the parents’ identities at an early age, I also learned there is a difference between the sexes.  And whether or not the newest Supreme Court Justice can define a “woman,” women are – for the record – different than men, and should be treated as such.

 

No one should be afraid to aver that we are not all the same.  As we have heard throughout the COVID-19 pandemic “follow the science.”  Let’s apply that idea to life.

End the Blather

 Way back, when I attended both high school and college, I was required to take English classes.  Parts of English study used to consist of Shakespeare, grammar, parts of speech, vocabulary, spelling, and creative writing.

 

To this day I still have trouble with Shakespeare, grammar, parts of speech, vocabulary, and spelling, largely, I believe, because of my inheriting the “Bad English Gene.”

 

Thank goodness for computers that are willing and able to assist with all of the above via Spell-Check, Grammatik, and the like, helping people similar to me – and especially me – stumble my way through life both on and off the interweb, much the same way calculators aid people with questionable arithmetic abilities.

 

Astute readers should recognize I left out “creative writing” from the list of genetic shortcomings, and it’s because that’s where we’ll begin today’s story.

 

While I can’t speak for me fellow classmates, I can certainly state my creative writing attempts in school were solid earnest attempts toward graduating since there were no computers to help mask my other hereditary weaknesses.

 

Sadistic teachers – they were called “teachers” then because they taught rather than “educate” – regularly handed out writing assignments usually over long, holiday weekends and vacation breaks.

 

Of course there were themes along with story/essay portions that needed to be considered, plus the dreaded ‘word count.”

 

The simple version of writing is as follows: 1.) Beginning  2.) Middle  3.) Conclusion, usually in that order; the word count only added to the angst and misery which taught students how to drink to excess.  But I digress.

 

Our family was poor so, I didn’t have access to a typewriter.  But I did have access to a spiral bound notebooks with which I scribbled out my beginning, middle, and conclusions.

 

Here’s where the actual “creative” portion of the writing exercise came into play.

 

The aforementioned word count was set by the teacher to prevent lazy students from writing two short paragraphs and calling it a day.  It further prevented those teacher’s pets from writing a novel along the lines of War and Peace, which had to be judged by the teachers.

 

Those word counts often ranged between 500 and 2000 words; that is a lot of writing when you’re trying to enjoy holiday time away from school.

 

Word counts were not supposed to include words such as “a,” “the,” “of,” “and,” plus “I,” along with a handful of other members of the alphabet.

 

In case you’re wondering how much writing 500 words is, from the beginning of this story to now, you’ve read about 421 words; but that includes the aforementioned words not to be counted, for the record.

 

Go ahead and count.  I’ll stop writing and wait for you.

 

Imagination goes a long way in creative writing, along with a sub-category, speech writing.

 

So it is with interest that I try to read as many speeches of Vice President Kamala Harris, as is humanly possible without turning to grain alcohol as a crutch.

 

VP Harris rode President Joseph Robinette Biden’s coattails into the current administration because she is what I call an “affirmative action hire.”

 

In other words, VP Harris got the job because she met the stringent criteria established by candidate Biden when on the campaign trail for his vice president, if elected.

 

He succinctly said his pick for VP would be a black woman.  And he did not disappoint.  Kinda.

 

Evidently it was important to then-Vice President Biden to select a running mate based solely on sex and race; merit, be damned.

 

Soon after taking office, President Biden assigned VP Harris one of several new tasks as a way to earn her money as a guvment employee.  The humor begins here.

 

Over the course of the next month's VP Harris tried to appear likeable.  But like Hillary Clinton, she was unable to meet that unachievable goal.  Time after time, the VP would turn toward the closest cameras to pretend she enjoyed and understood her job.

 

And time after time she stumbled like a sot on Saturday night just prior to last call at the bar. Her faux smile, accompanied by an equally fake laugh quickly brought her lack of any practical skills to the forefront.

 

One of her ancillary duties was to make a public service announcement by and for children, attempting to entice a younger generation of Americans toward a career in aeronautical science.

 

She appeared on camera surrounded by children – most of whom, if not all, were from Canada – while extolling the beauty of space travel and the Moon; it was lackluster, at best.  But her incoherent rambling cemented her place in history as a true affirmative action employee.

 

And not unlike my creative writing adventures, Harris struggled to make sense out of what the PSA was about while validating her appearance promoting something of which she knew nothing.

 

Suddenly, her ad lib speaking was labeled a “word salad,” implying it was indecipherable, largely because it was.  But still she continued with her public appearances as though she was a rock star.

 

However, now those audience laughs were at her, not with her.  And pity had descended upon her because of her unapologetic arrogance.  Her staff began leaving enmass, including her speechwriter, who likely departed to avoid any further embarrassment.

 

Each public appearance continues to give the façade of unpreparedness as she repeats and re-repeats, and re-re-repeats the same line and sticking point as though she was writing a school paper herself.

 

Thinking back to my school days of creative writing, I can only imagine VP Harris is continually giving oral presentations of her latest public assignments with the caveat she gives them with an assigned word count quota.  And just for you anal-retentive types, the word count here now stands at 978.

 

End the blather.  It’s clear by the exodus of her staff she isn’t paying heed to their suggestions.  By the way, she’s not getting paid by the word.