Tag Archives: politics

The witch doctor—unmasked


The real and very famous Dr. Ben Carson is indeed a witch doctor in the political stratosphere, full of ridiculous economic and foreign policy nostrums and voodoo.

by Dell Franklin

For a while it seemed the witch doctor possessed a suit of armor even the clever and pugnacious Donald Trump could not dent, much less pierce—he was a famously successful black man with a great American come-up-from-the-bootstraps story as well as blessed by the Lord and in the mold of ultra-conservative Justice Clarence Thomas, the exact kind of black man George H.W. Bush and the GOP brain trust loved to shove up the asses of politically correct white liberal Democrats.

The witch doctor did not use street lingo even if he was from the mean streets of Detroit and never uttered “y’all, or “you all.” The witch doctor carefully refrained from insulting his whiter-than-white competition and realized if he raised his voice or engaged in salty invective he would lapse into the stereotype of the white man’s version of the angry “uppity nigger.” The witch doctor was not an amen-shouting, gospel-singing, rocking-in-the-aisles Jesus-chanting Baptist but instead a deeply religious strangely serene Seventh Day Adventist who didn’t believe in evolution or climate change and claimed when he was at his lowest as a street psychopath he met God and found his path to being a world-famous neurosurgeon. The witch doctor was sweetly mellow and exuded a calm patience and tolerance toward his inquisitors when they tried to pigeon-hole him on his views, which he wriggled out of with some unusual circular double-talk that made absolutely no sense but was so coated in sugar that even his absurd flat tax or tithing and comparison of Obamacare to slavery was given a free ride.

The Donald searched for an opening to wound the great witch doctor as he gained ground on him and passed him in the polls after the Donald smugly conceded he was a “nice guy” when he was ahead. None of the candidates knew how to puncture the now front-running witch doctor as he continued his slew of sweetness to the evangelicals who would vote for a person capable of destroying the planet with either war or the denial of climate change as long as he promised to eliminate Planned Parenthood and believed in the rapture.

But the Donald played his cards just right, waiting for the dreaded, hated and despicable media to nail the witch doctor, and when they did, on exaggerations and myth-making of his personal history, the Donald, who also despises the dreaded, hated and despicable media and makes no secret of it, pounced, making a mockery of the witch doctor alluding to his own words of characterizing himself—the witch doctor—as a “psychopath” as a young kid in the ghetto. Ahh, the Donald instantly went after the witch doctor like a shark in a feeding frenzy.

As soon as the media began finding lies in his great story of “Gifted Hands,” the witch doctor began whining and blaming and turned into a petulant aggrieved wounded black man who now had to absorb far more media abuse than the dreaded, hated and despicable Obama ever had to absorb, boohoo. In fact, the witch doctor had to, in his own words, absorb more scrutiny and “vicious lies” than anybody in the history of the country, including Bill and Hillary Clinton, or anybody else who ever ran for high office in America!

The witch doctor is being persecuted because he is so perfect and genuine that the dreaded, hated, despicable media, along with the cruel incompetent Democrats, cannot stand it. They are “desperate” to take him down because they are terrified he will defeat them. During a press conference where his honesty was questioned, the witch doctor’s calm and pleasant and always sweet demeanor became animated and his eyes turned stony as he lashed out at his inquisitors, waving his arms around, adhering to the last bastion for politicians caught in double-talk or outright deception—blame the media!


The witch doctor is indeed a DOCTOR! Doctors in this country are exalted, placed on pedestals as the last saviors between sickness, pain and death. We worship them. We go to them hat in hand in our ignorance of our latest maladies in shrieking fear they will maim or kill us, and doctors make it all better and we want to hug them out of appreciation and gratefulness.

Doctors do not accept anybody taking them to task. They are in charge. They tell nurses and lab techs and anybody in their paths what to do and show up only to operate or diagnose, and very briefly consult. They are our gods, and if they’re good enough to heal us, well, like the witch doctor, they’re good enough to run the country.

But like all control freaks and egomaniacs, the witch doctor was not satisfied with his accomplishments and needed to embellish them further so nobody could ever question his greatness, his rightfulness, and when they did, he was outraged. As the inquisition from the dreaded, hateful, despicable media increased in its frenzy, the more grumpily the witch doctor whined and double-talked and denied; and the more angrily he condemned the media the more outraged his deluded evangelical tribe became and the more money they poured into his coffers.

The real and very famous Dr. Ben Carson is indeed a witch doctor in the political stratosphere, full of ridiculous economic and foreign policy nostrums and voodoo unfit for anybody outside of his deluded evangelical tribe to swallow. When it comes right down to it, he is the low-key evangelist mesmerizing his flock with the identical bullshit that has bamboozled those who want to believe for eons, the same evangelists who eventually get caught with prostitutes of either sex or the greedy feathering of their own nests with profligate spending on luxurious mansions, and profess their great contrition in tearful humility as their patient wives hang on and the disappointed flocks hang on too, believing the Lord forgives, and of course he does, just like he will the witch doctor when the country finds out what a complete fraud he is. §

Dell Franklin writes from his home in Cayucos, Calif., where he lives with his rescue dog, Wilbur. He’s the author of The Ball Player’s Son, a memoir about his father, Murray Franklin, and the early days of big league baseball. Visit his website: dellfranklin.com

Hillary & the Benghazi goon squad

by Dell Franklin


Hillary maintained that arch calm, almost smiling at their little boy ineptitude and cry for attention, once flicking lint off her shoulder, as if signifying these men as no better than flies or gnats.

Elijah Cummings and Adam Schiff tried to come to her aid, but Hillary didn’t need them. She endured the inquisition, the steady bombardment of insulting drivel and accusations and falsehoods from the likes of Trey Gowdy and his menagerie of goons and held firm, displaying an arch calm and deliberate, articulate answers to their prosecutorial grilling, saying just enough but not too much, and what was evident in her demeanor was the bugaboo in theirs—lack of an unreasonable and bullying male ego, which seemed to be transfused into the two female members of the panel.

This ugly gob of male ego, always spoiling for a good fight and incapable of admitting defeat, pushed hard into the dinner hours trying to grind her down, but Hillary, like a slick shortstop from the Dominican Republic, kept fielding their vicious grounders and throwing them out with ease as they tripped over first base repeatedly and then kicked at the dirt and yelled at the umpires like sore losers, and little boys.

Hillary’s lack of male ego was what this miserable pack of jackals could not contend with. She exhibited no anger at their insinuations, their incriminations, only the same arch calm that held firm for eleven hours as they blistered her with one toxic salvo after another, one repeated, droning, boring question after another, one more strident hysterical raising of the voice, one more sententious play to the national audience for a little recognition as they became smaller and smaller, little men using a pea shooter to take down a giant.

Led by Gowdy, a man who resembles a hairless weasel with skin gloss and taped on ears, who looked like he was trying out for a John Grisham lawyer part in one of his novels turned into a movie. His two hit men, the wheedling, sneering Jordan and Roskam, played big for Fox News while Hillary maintained that arch calm, almost smiling at their little boy ineptitude and cry for attention, once flicking lint off her shoulder, as if signifying these men as no better than flies or gnats. All day long, as they tried to wear her down, she wore them down, until the whole sorry lot seemed to be talking to only themselves, like deluded sociopaths.

Hillary was too strong for them, too tough, too smart. And, fact is, because of what women have had to tolerate from men since the beginning of time, they ultimately have more steel in their gut. Just ask those who have tangled with Margaret Thatcher, Golda Meir, and Angela Merkel, who ate their male competitors for lunch.

I hark back to my own mother, a diminutive woman whom my father, war vet, professional athlete who played hurt and never missed a day’s work no matter how sick, said, “You think I’m tough? She’s tougher, believe me.”

My father, who grew up a Russian Jew in a German/Polish anti-Semitic neighborhood, where he fought every day and went on to become an amateur boxing champion, would punch anybody out who uttered anything derogatory about Jews, or used the kike, sheenie terminology around him. My mother, a Jewish lady with small, exquisite features and an IQ of around 160, had a far different way of dealing with such mean prejudice. She told me the story of driving across the country from Wisconsin to Norfolk, Virginia, where my dad was stationed in the navy before shipping out to the South Pacific. Dad had managed to arrange for the wife of a fellow navy man, an officer, to share the driving in dad’s Packard.

Mother agreed, and they set out from Madison, where the lady had been a cheer leader and debutante and almost immediately began informing my mother that the real enemy of World War II wasn’t the Germans, but the Jews, who were responsible for it. Roosevelt’s cabinet was infested with Jews. The Jews controlled the money. The Jews were greedy. The Jews this, the Jews that, the woman taking my mother for a gentile perhaps because she was so stunningly beautiful and perhaps not fitting the stereotype of what a Jew looked like in that era.

My mother said, “I let her go on. Unlike your father, I did not fly off the handle. She was spoiled and terribly entitled and she continued this kind of talk for an entire day. I still let it go. I remained calm and pleasant. I waited until we were about a hundred miles out of Norfolk, and when she started in again, I pulled over on the side of the road, and I just looked at her. I didn’t say anything for about a minute. And then I told her, ‘I want you to know you’ve been traveling with a Jew for the last two days.’ Well, I thought she might die right there. I cannot tell you how shocked she was, and how devastated she was when I just sat there and looked at her. I wasn’t mad. I just looked at her with pity and compassion for being such a narrow, shallow person who would never experience the privilege of compassion. She was from a rich family, I was poor. Well, she started apologizing, the poor thing was crying, she became hysterical. She apologized and apologized, and when she calmed down, she said, ‘but you don’t…look like a Jew.’ Oh, I said, what does a Jew look like?’ She cried and blubbered the last three hours of our trip.”

Mother said that the suffering this woman experienced those last one hundred miles was probably ten times worse than the damage my father inflicted on men who had uttered Jew-baiting remarks in his presence—several of whom ended up hospitalized. Mother said, “That woman will never forget that experience, and every time she thinks about it she will cringe, and maybe cry, and you can bet she will never repeat that business again.”

Maybe it IS time for a woman president, somebody without the kind of blustery male ego owned by an unfulfilled man like George W. Bush, who never played sports and ended up a cheerleader at Yale but couldn’t wait to go to war with his equally unfulfilled chicken-hawk pals. Maybe it’s time we had a cool, calculating, clever woman who’s been working her way around some of the biggest male egos on the world stage and in her own government and learned how to deal with them through thick and thin, victory and defeat, as well as the storm of bullshit they’ve thrown at her for decades.

You want tough? Just ask Bill. And now you can ask the Benghazi goon squad licking their wounds after getting torn up by this subtle tigress.

Bring ‘em all on, lady, they’re fair game. §

Dell Franklin writes from his home in Cayucos, Calif., where he lives with his rescue dog, Wilbur. He’s the author of The Ball Player’s Son, a memoir about his father, Murray Franklin, and the early days of big league baseball. Visit his website: dellfranklin.com

Trump’s blighted white men


Donald Trump’s blighted white men, spawn of the “greatest generation,” who endured our worst economic Depression and World War II, are the prime pawns in his quest for the presidency. Trump’s blighted white men are the most spoiled, petulant and fortunate generation in American history, the inheritors of free education, an awesome safety net, powerful unions, opportunity for employment in both blue- and white-collar industries, and the overall advantage of being white instead of black so that they were guaranteed automatic employment. Trump’s blighted white men are vigorously on board with his insane and cruel attacks on Mexican immigrants. Trump’s blighted white men, who would in most cases deny with vehemence that they are racists, fulminate against a black president named Obama because he wants to allow “a bunch of undocumented Mexicans” in the country and tax the rich “so unemployed lazy niggers can live on welfare,” even if these white men in almost all cases have everything they ever wanted and need nothing more because they lived in an era where everything fell into their hands.

Trump’s blighted white men are the most spoiled, petulant and fortunate generation in American history.

Many of Trump’s blighted white men, and perhaps the most vitriolic, are those fat flabby red-faced golfers in ball caps and white mustaches who congregate at gyms or coffee shops to vent the poison built up in their craws because of Obama and complain that the government is the enemy, as declared by Ronald Reagan, their idol. The government provided this crew with just about everything the New Deal and the Great Society created, only to turn on it after they became flush. The trouble with Trump’s blighted white men is that they have it so good and are so bored in retirement that they need something to bitch about, something to feel persecuted about, something to hate, especially those who grew up in an era where everybody on their side of the tracks was white, and the blacks and browns lived across those tracks in another world they did not know or want to know and feared as they would aliens in the same xenophobic way they now do immigrants.

These days, Trump’s blighted white men claim the country has been taken away from them, which means that from the beginning they felt the country was strictly theirs, belonging only to white people who controlled the government and the money and tossed crumbs to minorities. Suddenly, today, Trump’s blighted white men are surrounded by blacks, Mexicans, Central Americans, Asians of every stripe, Indians, and mixes of all these nationalities, and it is all confusing and depressing to see their once powerful populace shrivel as the dreaded Muslims and immigrant criminals close in on them and scare the shit out of them to the point they might in the future need armed security in their neighborhoods or at their gated communities, not to mention their arsenals of guns.

Truth is, Trump’s blighted white men, who claim THEY are the great American work ethic and symbols of the great American dream and responsible for making this the greatest, godliest country in the world, are recipients of huge pensions and inheritances and a culture that enabled them to reap great rewards while not working half as hard as their parents and ancestors or any of the hated and dreaded immigrants, and especially the Mexicans, who work so hard and are so hungry that the blighted white men, whose children and grandchildren spend most of their time either talking on cell phones or fidgeting with ipads and seem to accept minorities, homosexuals, transsexuals, same sex marriage, abortion and immigrants, have become perplexed and apoplectic.

Truth is, Trump’s blighted white men are either the most uninformed or stupid people in the country, so much so they are prime prey for demagogues who usually prey on the poor and desperate but in this case have the greatest scapegoat in the American history of demagogues—Barack Obama. Trump’s blighted white men are in a frenzy over Obama, even if the country and their finances were in shambles because of the boob they voted for, George Bush, and are now flush again and out of danger and the country is much better off as they express their hatred of government and the man responsible for bailing their asses out.

I am 72 and grew up with this lot. They all seemed so content and happy with their cars and girls and trendy clothing and jobs at the local diner or department store or Disneyland, in my case. Who would have thought such a cheerful, care-free generation of young males would turn into this intolerant, up-tight, stingy, glum, mean-spirited legion of malcontents. One of my best friends, fellow jock who taught high school English and coached baseball in Orange County, has had a falling out with all his fellow coaches and golfing partners and career-long friends, all Republicans. He told me a story of visiting an old football friend in a small town in Wyoming, where he refused to bring up guns and abortion and the government, just so they could get along and talk old times.

“We were driving along, and this guy, he’s the mayor, and he sees a rabbit on the side of the road, he pulls over, jumps out, shoots and kills the rabbit, just leaves it there, jumps back in his truck and says, ‘that’s for fucking Obama, the motherfucker ain’t taking away MY guns.”

Almost all of Trump’s blighted White men, who will end up following him to hell, deserve the hell he just might produce, and are leaving a legacy they ought to be ashamed of. §

Talmadge Jarratee writes about politics and occasional sketches of San Francisco and, because of his views, may soon be homeless. For more on Talmadge, visit dellfranklin.com




by Talmadge Jarratee

Poor Rand Paul tried to re-establish himself to the Republican voting public by attempting to take down the mighty Donald with lame imitations of the Donald’s disreputable gibberish and in doing so beame the incredible shrinking man (ISM), the kind whose emaciated skull once hung from mirrors of cherried-out jalopies driven by hooligans back in the 1950s and ‘60s. The Donald regards Senator Paul as if he is an annoying flea to be flicked off his thousand-dollar sleeve. The ISM maintained the Donald  cheapened the campaign among the 16 stooges trampling all over each other like a mad scramble to roll back every single piece of legislature the Democrats have passed since the 1930s, when President Roosevelt placed people like William O. Douglas as head of the SEC and stuck it in their big business craw.

Rand Paul began his childish whining during the first debate, when, like a little boy hiding behind his big brother facing the neighborhood bully, began challenging the Donald on “hedging” his answer on whether he’d run as an Independent. The Donald flicked him aside. Throughout the debate the senator, obviously having rehearsed his assault on the Donald in the mirror for hours in an attempt to look tough and resolute, appeared peaked with his skull recently shorn of familiar curls, possibly to seem more presidential. The ISM bobbed and weaved and slithered behind his big brother all night long like the kid every other kid in the neighborhood hates just by the sneaky look in his ferret face. Now the pathetic senator is caviling every chance he gets on all the cable stations while the ponderous Donald calls his own press conference, which is treated like a monumental happening and plays big and friendly with the press corps he previously excoriated as less than vermin.

Fox News, tortured that Donald might be the nominee, backed down, and are now ON him. The salvation.

Meanwhile, Senator Paul, whom the Donald accused of losing to him in golf, claimed the Big Bad Donald was playing on “his home course,” has seen his poll numbers plummet to near extinction—which the Donald notes—while ex-Governor Jeb Bush, the joyless non-personality lump of a brother of the blundering ex-President, sees his stooped frame wither on the vine as the Donald calls more press conferences and waxes eloquent in a show of bravado, as if he has already been elected President.

The major news cable stations—Fox, MSNBC, CNN—scurry to post …BREAKING NEWS… alerts and go apeshit as the Donald, with no notes or teleprompter, excoriates the remaining shrinking men as losers in life because they don’t know how to make money and build castles and fuck the government and are dependent on swine like the Koch brothers and Sheldon Adelsen and other bilious billionaires interested only in power and control to bankroll their shriveling campaigns.

The other night, with thousands cheering and the Donald regaling them, he tore into Bush who was down the road lecturing a paltry lot of 200 max in his own lackluster way about policy and trying to ignore the Donald’s barbs about his being “weak.” The exalted, entitled Bush, a hand-picked momma’s boy by the steely Barbara to be our next President, who obviously lived a sheltered childhood as he worked his way through prep schools and the University of Texas at Austin, retorts with the sneery snipes of somebody who’s never been punched in the nose—in certain realms he would be punched in the nose, just for his looks and bearing.

His voice is weak and whiny. Next to the Donald, he looks like a punk. He’s shrinking, shrinking, his numbers plummeting as he claims he’s in for the long haul with his $114 million, more than any of the other contenders, most of whom, beside the Donald, have shrunk into vapors—troll-like Jindal; Huckabee, Christ-crazed, fire-breathing ex-governor from Arkansas is near extinction (thank God); Santorum is a feeble echo in the din; Senator Graham went down in flames with his cell phone; brain-dead Perry is broke and babbling nonsense; the paleface hypocrite Walker from Wisconsin along with the weasel-faced demagogue Cruz have turned to caddying for all of the Donald’s putrid, mean-spirited, outlandish, grandiose so-called policies, sucking up in case he falls.

They’re all trying to arrest the terrible shrinking within and without by holding interviews with cable employees stuck with the rotten job of listening to their lame excuses and empty vows of hope while it’s pointed out their poll-numbers are shrinking.

Kasich looks the rumpled eastern European just got off the boat next to the sartorial Donald, who travels in his own plane with a third wife gorgeous enough to be on the cover of Vogue. Pataki is a sour pill impossible to digest. Only the venomous-tongued scarecrow of a woman Fiorino, the Hewlett-Packard devouring vampire, who looks like she belongs on a broom headed to Oz, and the doctor, who read his debate retorts from a script and likens Obamacare to slavery, are fighting off the shrinkage Donald heaps upon them. He doesn’t mention them. He knows they’re no threat. Right now he’s in the process of extinguishing the third Bush, not exactly a manly man.

But he’s got his millions, and he’s got his brother, whom he defends, and blames Obama for the situation the boob brother started and ignited, and he’s quickly backing away from every humanitarian policy or statement he ever made for the little guy and reiterating that he is “his own man” and not his dad or brother, so as to curry favor and votes from the numbskull slugs lost in the wilderness of ignorance and anger at being passed over by the new technology and the rapidly increasing ruthlessness of their own party.

What Bush is is the same flotsam and jetsam as all the rest—sans Trump—a pawn and puppet of the big money boys turning America, the greatest democracy in history, into a flat-out oligarchy.

We deserve Trump.

Talmadge Jarratee writes about politics and occasional sketches of San Francisco and, because of his views, may soon be homeless. For more on Talmadge, visit dellfranklin.com



Lindsey Graham once asked Donald Trump for money for his senatorial candidacy and handed him a slip of paper with his phone number on it, a strip of paper Trump showed everybody on national TV.

by Talmadge Jarratee

Is anybody anywhere having more fun than Donald Trump? This is a man who loves to create raw abrasions and rub them with salt and giggle with demonic glee. He’s a big soft white slab of cowardice with a bizarre shock of carefully tended and glistening hay atop his head, a blow-hard bringing his fellow GOP candidates to their knees and savoring every second of it. A certified draft dodger, he had the gall to imply revered war hero John McCain was not a real hero because he was captured after being shot down in Vietnam. McCain’s capture and years as a POW made McCain a loser in Trump’s eyes. When McCain caddie Lindsey Graham delivered a sanctimonious speech supporting his hero and condemning the blasphemous Donald, the Donald had trouble remembering who Graham was, then mentioned that Graham once asked him for money for his senatorial candidacy and handed him a slip of paper with his phone number on it, a strip of paper Trump showed everybody on national TV and read off the number, causing Graham to change numbers after he was besieged by crank callers enthralled with the Donald.

According to Trump, Rick Perry from Texas needs an IQ test if he’s serious about running for president and wears glasses to appear studious and smart when voters question his mental capacity after displaying stunning stupidity in past debates. Jeb Bush is a nice guy, but he’s weak, would make a terrible president. There are 15 of these stooges vying for the big enchilada, and they are all distracted from slamming Obama and Hillary because they have their hands full with the bullet-proof Donald, who, unlike his rivals, feels no compunction to show his softer, compassionate side. When he was asked about his three marriages, always a political bugaboo, he softened just a might by adding that they were all nice ladies and still his friends and he loves women.

The Donald is an unabashed rogue. He is a lacerating bully. His vicious verbiage is gleefully out of bounds.

The Donald is an unabashed rogue. He is a lacerating bully. His vicious verbiage is gleefully out of bounds. As a ruthless businessman used to sycophants kissing HIS ass for money, he scoffs at the beggarly tendencies of his competition and announces he has 10 billion and doesn’t have to go skulking hat in hand to billionaires interested in holding the puppet strings. He doesn’t have to read from a teleprompter. He seems so imperious as to be immune from careful speechwriters terrified of insulting one group or another. The Donald doesn’t give a hoot and hell who he insults or humiliates or treats with snarling disdain when they muster up enough nerve to retaliate.

And oh how Trump thrives on retaliation. What he seems to enjoy even more is to watch the carefully calibrated and advisor-plagued candidates cringe and squirm after each one of his rancid salvos so filled with contempt for the common man, and especially Latinos, or, primarily, Mexican immigrants. Next to Trump, Rubio seems a slithering weasel, a little boy, while Mr. Walker from Wisconsin appears to be the whitest white man in captivity, so white he blinds you when you’re forced to look at him, so white in every way that those Obama-hating whites in their 60s and 70s are in love with him, even if he smacks of one of those white kids we all remember hating when they ran for school president.

The 15 stooges have tried ignoring Trump. This does no good, because Mr. Trump has so captured the stage as to reduce them to pygmies if they remain silent. If they maintain their dignity in measured tones, answering the Donald’s insults with judicious dignity, like Jeb, they seem even weaker and more spineless than suspected. If they lash out in outrage, the Donald quickly seizes on the fact that they are politicians with years of hypocrisy behind them while trying to be all things to all people, or at least all things to the tight-asses in their party whose votes they need for the presidential nomination. Does the empire-owning Donald with his OWN jet plane and entourage really care about religion? Abortion? Same-sex marriage? He quickly skims these issues and talks about belting around the Chinese, bombing the hell out of Iran, running the Mexican criminals and immigrants out of the country and building a 2,000-mile wall to keep their greasy asses out, and creating jobs while the stooges slither and stew and plague us with their stiff joyless cheesy smiles of losers maintaining a brave face after suffering a personal thrashing.

As a ruthless businessman used to sycophants kissing HIS ass for money, he scoffs at the beggarly tendencies of his competition.

The 15 stooges and their loyal pundits claim the Donald will eventually fizzle out, because there’s no way this verbal brute could possibly run a country, and people will come to realize this. The pundits analyze the Donald and carefully admit his strength, his popularity, admitting he has touched a sore spot among discontented Americans igniting them, uniting them into one frothing dogpack clamoring for change. Unlike the stuffed shirt 15, who expound on their wholesomeness while sporting their perfect little families, the grinning sexless maiden-like wives, the Donald admitted long ago he likes young women half his age and prefers sex with them over alcohol. What more could one appreciate than a guy who relishes young pussy? Unlike the straight and narrow dullards—Jeb leads this pack—who have craved office all their lives and limited any roguish tendencies in fear they might be discovered, the Donald has always swung wild with no concern for his image of a man who steps on little people and negotiates with those supposedly on his own exalted level, never backing down or back-tracking from his image as the ultimate winner and billionaire American business tycoon.

If the Donald is having more fun than anybody in America—hands down—the Democrats are right behind him, rejoicing as the 15 stooges quail and quiver and look to advisers in a desperate quest for answers as to how to deal with the meteoric and overwhelming and overbearing Donald. Chris Mathews, on MSNBC, grins and glows every evening while the gloom settles in among the Fox News crew of scowling tough-guy gasbags and snide blondes who try to deny the Donald is dragging down the Republican party and exposing the 15 stooges to America and the rest of the world as a disgrace, an absurd rendition of democracy so putrid and unlikable that its citizens wonder how the hell it ended up that we are forced to vote for these assholes. As we repeatedly claim we are the greatest country in the world, what must highly progressive and well-run countries like Sweden and Germany and Denmark and Holland think of the sniveling Republican reaction to the bombastic bilge tossed at them by the Donald? Has the greatest country in the world, as we claim, become a laughingstock to the rest of the world?

Perhaps so. Meanwhile, just keep following the Donald, as he licks his lips and snorts and stomps around like a middle linebacker in the National Football League anticipating another lily-livered Lilliputian taking the ball across the line of scrimmage—his territory. §

Talmadge Jarratee writes about politics and occasional sketches of San Francisco.