With supporting evidence, Harry Markopolos told the American government, five times, that he’d found a Ponzi scheme. That one man, Bernie Madoff, was still allowed to destroy thousands of lives (until his plot against the world collapsed under it’s own weight) should come as no surprise.
One man, John Carryrou, got a tip something was amiss, after thousands of reporters had already walked with Elizabeth Holmes through the halls of Theranos. She, too, was “on the path” to being allowed to destroy thousands of lives - before the weight of the Wall Street Journal fell on her.
Aaron Rodgers is one man, but thousands of others are now suspiciously quiet behind him - after destroying thousands of other lives - all around the world. People like Prince Charles, the future King of England, and a lifetime activist for (and now a patron of) homeopathy. Or France’s Boiron Corporation, which is actually the leader in "making" the stuff (since homeopathy is water, what do you imagine they “do” all day?) along with Oprah Winfrey and Dr. Oz, Jenny McCarthy and Jim Carrey, Robert De Niro and Robert Kennedy, Jr., Gwyneth Paltrow - the list goes on. Will a “weight” fall on them - or will one man have to carry it alone?
This phenomena, known as homeopathy, has been around for 200 years. So, history says, we knew the answer to that question, before it was even asked.
My beautiful sister, Marva, has a great ear for music, which isn't surprising because we come from a musical family and she and I both have music careers. But what gets me right now, and the reason I wanted to do a post, is that her music selections can make me practically travel back in time to the '60s, without making it seem like that generic acid-tinged day-glo poster everyone else attempts to conjure.
This is the '60s as I remembered them, when I was a boy, aware beyond my years but with a view that was limited in scope. I didn't know what a hippie was, and though sex showed up early, drugs were still a long way off. Men drank beer, or whiskey, and the women wore sun dresses. Black people were so concerned with their image we dressed up to go to the supermarket. "Funky" was a really bad word.
Martin Luther King was alive and many men wore coveralls as a uniform of the Civil Rights Movement. The insurance man was a "very important person", warranting the dispersal of children and displays of silverware. We hid in silence from Jehovah's Witnesses. We took naps to Billy Graham.
Collard greens were grown next to rose bushes. I thought an iguana was a dinosaur. There were 13 kids in the foster home, with 5 dogs, several chickens and ducks, and a rabbit. We caught an opossum, and stared at his ugly ass all day, but he "played possum" and escaped that night. My foster mother ran down armadillos skittering from the gutters. She caught snakes with her hands and killed them with a gardening hoe.
(I'm only including this song, above, because it's co-written by my sister's good friend Jimmy (OO Soul) Holvay.)
Everyone kept plastic on Living Room furniture, and kids were forbidden to enter there except on special occasions. My Auntie Bessie's was considered extremely glamorous because she decorated it in blue. It was rare that we'd enter her home through the front door, and when we did it felt like someone had died.
One of my sisters had a crush on Elvis which seemed very weird. My cousin Ricky, who was lighter than the rest of us, owned a 45 of The Beatles that nobody would let him play. The old man had nude pinups of white women in the garage. We were forbidden to look at them and thought they were very exotic.
Everybody loved Bobby Kennedy and there was a profile of Abraham Lincoln in every house. Jesus suffered, hauntingly, on his cross at the top of the stairs. We kids ran by him as fast as we could, just to avoid his gaze. It never worked because we looked.
The Three Stooges, The Little Rascals, and I Love Lucy seemed to always be on television, interrupted occasionally by I Spy (with Bill Cosby) The Man from U.N.C.L.E. and Lawrence Welk. I don't remember when Petticoat Junction came on, but Bonanza came on Sundays. Cartoons started at 7AM, on Saturdays, and occupied a world of their own.
A family friend, Chester Moore, thought it extremely important that all the foster kids learn how to shoot pool, so he'd take us to the billiard parlor and teach us to aim. He got our Christmas tree cheap by saying we were orphans. He said he never saw a woman as beautiful as Cher. Chester drank too much, but he was the only one.
Momma R. made an outstanding peach cobbler, and, if you were going to McDonald's she'd ask you to pick her up some "hambuggies". Taco Bell sold "Tacahs". Jack In The Box just sold Jack In The Box.
My foster mother knew one dance, The Shotgun. She'd use her fingers to make pistols and when she "shot" us we'd laugh. She once fell off a Merry-Go-Round that had started moving while she was trying to secure me to a horse. I never got over the guilt and brought her gifts until the day she died.
"New York's public school children will soon be participants in the cult of Robert F. Kennedy - courtesy of a curriculum drafted by the state teachers union. In mid-November, the 600,000 member New York State United Teachers mailed a lesson plan for fourth, eighth and 11th graders to principals and superintendents, titled 'Speak Up, Speak Out: Robert F. Kennedy, Champion of Social Justice.'
The lesson plans are somewhere between whitewashing and brainwashing - but not anything approximating a balanced view of the life of RFK."
-- Christopher Chichester, on more cultism from the Democratic Party - this time for the man who had Martin Luther King's phones bugged, and famously said, "People say I am ruthless. I am not ruthless. And if I find the man who is calling me ruthless, I shall destroy him." - in The New York Daily News.
"The Kennedys recently endorsed Barack Obama, and Teddy Kennedy drew a parallel with President Kennedy -- a vision of a new Camelot rising like a phoenix from the ashes of the Bush administration. Either he was addressing the largest group of amnesiacs ever gathered in one place in history or the media and much of America have been eating funny mushrooms and are in the throes of a mass delusion.
Back to reality: The late President Kennedy bears responsibility for the initiation of one of the bleakest episodes in modern American history -- the Vietnam War.
On the domestic front, he accomplished little, and his promises had to be delivered by President Johnson. He did, however, inaugurate the White House revolving door policy as far as women were concerned, and even in this area it needed a subsequent President -- Clinton -- to bring it to a point of perfection.
The liberals hug Robert Kennedy's memory, but choose not to remember that he personally authorized the wiretaps on Dr. Martin Luther King. He also carried on the President's policies, and as in many families, there were traditions; such as passing down clothing from an older to younger child -- only they did this with women. The most well-known of these involved the late Marilyn Monroe. After the President was through with her, he passed her down to Bobby. Eventually, as we all know, the poor woman killed herself.
There are, of course, the gaggle of Kennedy relatives who have been arrested and charged with everything from drunk driving, to rape, and even murder.
This, of course, brings us to the present Bloviator-in-Chief Teddy Kennedy,...He has killed someone -- and not while serving as a member of the armed forces. After a drunken party, he drove off a bridge and left his passenger Mary Jo Kopechne alone to drown to death, trapped in his car.
All of this makes us wonder at the judgment of Mr. Obama, or the American public. Camelot, once the fairy tale aspect is put aside, is as attractive as a cesspool -- and may even smell a lot worse.
- Taken from "Camelot or Cesspool", written by comedian Jackie Mason and attorney Raoul Felder
Just a note to say, I'm not against Barack Obama - or the Kennedy's - but, politically, this blog is no place for kidding ourselves,...
