What Would the Forefathers Think?

As I have said, where we are as a nation, is not what our forefathers had in mind.  The assault rifles, the useless taking of black lives, the questioning of a women’s rights over her body and mind…it goes on and on.

We cannot continue to isolate ourselves from the violence.  We cannot ignore the lack of sympathy running rampant through the streets.

A little girl from Honduras stares into the camera, her young features contorted in anguish. She’s barefoot, dusty, and clad only in a diaper and T-shirt. And she’s just had to run from clouds of choking tear gas fired across the border by U.S. agents.

A second photograph, which also circulated widely and rapidly on social media, shows an equally anguished woman frantically trying to drag the same child and a second toddler away from the gas as it spreads.

The three were part of a much larger group, perhaps 70 or 80 men, women and children, pictured in a wider-angle photo fleeing the tear gas. Reuters photographer Kim Kyung-Hoon shot the images, which provoked outrage and seemed at odds with President Trump’s portrayal of the caravan migrants as “criminals” and “gang members.”

Trump officials said that authorities had to respond with force after hundreds of migrants rushed the border near Tijuana on Sunday, some of them throwing “projectiles” at Customs and Border Protection personnel.

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America…the new and not improved…uncivilized nation!

I Remember 2018

At the unripened age of 51, I now realize that my teen years were framed by choice, free speech, pot and a vote that seemed inconsequential.  There had been assassinations, the Kennedy’s, Martin Luther.  And the term ‘conflict’…had been a thing of the past.  But to a child of 16: those were acts of the past.  Had times been more turbulent and less self centered in the mid 80’s; would my life had been different?  It hadn’t been until the A.I.D.S., virus and a governmental mishandle took place…did I begin to volunteer to make a difference.  Vote to make a change.  Things are much different now.

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It was last Saturday when it hit me that my entire life has been framed by violence.

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I don’t remember being born on Jan. 28, 2000, and I don’t remember being a year and a half old when 9/11 happened. I don’t remember the panic of my mother as she stepped outside our house in Washington and smelled the smoke of the burning Pentagon. I don’t remember her knowing I would grow up in a changed world.

But I remember other things. I remember being 7 years old and seeing adults who were sad, angry, shocked after something terrible happened at Virginia Tech. I remember not knowing why. I remember the lockdown drills at my elementary school, the helpful signs in every classroom telling us where to hide in case of a “Code Blue,” which meant active shooter. (I remember we were told that having all the kids in one corner, a misguided protocol no longer followed, was the best means of protection.)

I remember being in seventh grade, and I remember my teacher looking up from her computer, pale, and running out of the room without a word during a quiz. I remember her walking back in, tears streaking her face, as she told us there had been a shooting in Newtown, Conn., where her grandchildren lived. I remember her telling us they were all right, and I remember thinking of my little brother in his second-grade classroom and feeling my stomach churn.

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I remember walking into my high school the day after the Orlando nightclub shooting and seeing one of my gay friends sitting limply in a chair, eyes hollow. I remember sobbing. Often, I remember sobbing. I remember friends’ tears a year later, after the shooting in Las Vegas, and I remember feeling angry that I wasn’t crying. I remember Parkland the most clearly. I remember the silence. No one talked about it the morning after. No teachers mentioned it. I remember bringing it up at lunch but receiving only passing responses. I remember talking to my friend Max about how odd it was that no one said anything. I remember him gathering our friends to organize a walkout. I remember walking out, and I remember the silence of the crowd of students standing outside in the March cold. I remember the crackle of the megaphone we used as we read one name of one victim every minute. I remember those 17 minutes. I remember marching, once, then twice, and again and again.

I remember going with two friends last Friday to a Shabbat service in the spare room of a local Methodist church, sponsored by my college’s Jewish organization Hillel. I remember my friend Lucy leading the prayers, with her singing and playing guitar, and I remember my valiant attempts to sing along using the transliterations below the Hebrew in the books they’d handed out. I remember getting kosher dinner with them afterward as they explained to me how and why kosher food was a thing. I remember them describing the different kinds of Judaism they all came from.

I remember waking up on Saturday morning and seeing the news on my phone. I remember the sadness, shock, anger. I remember the haunting thought that the shooter might have gone to our service instead, or could go to the next one. I remember a stream of dripping wax burning my finger at the vigil I attended. I remember the look in my Jewish friends’ eyes.

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And it was then that I remembered everything at once. I remembered all the violence looming around me, and my friends, and my entire generation. I remembered that for anyone born near the year 2000, this is all we’ve ever known.

I remember filling out my absentee ballot a few weeks ago. I remember voting, hoping that weeks, years, decades from now I’d be able to remember that we changed.

##Julia Savoca Gibson/essay/Washington Post

Killing Us Softly with McNuggets

Is it okay to not worry and be happy?

On the night of Nov. 27, Mrs. Katherine Ortega bought a box of fried chicken wings (not Chicken McNuggets, contrary to some reports) at a local McDonald’s restaurant and took it home to her family. While dishing it up to feed her children, Ortega noticed that one of the pieces looked, well… funny. Examining it more closely, she saw it had eyes and a beak. She screamed. It wasn’t a wing at all, she realized; it was a chicken’s head, battered, fried, and fully intact.

It sounds like an urban legend, sure enough, which is why some people have expressed skepticism. The story has earned column inches in newspapers all across the United States — even finding its way into the esteemed Washington Post — but who trusts the media to give us the facts anymore?

Whatever Happened to Mickey: Did Pop-rocks and Soda kill the Video (Commercial) star?

In a rural New Hampshire slow to the draw town, a wouldn’t-be scientist put this to the test.  Final result?  Technicolor vomit and lack of sleep for ten days.

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As for Mickey?  He’s been spotted with Pee Wee Herman down in South Miami selling ice cream out of a unassuming white van.

Can you poke an eye out with a pair of your sister’s dirty socks?

No, but many girls will go on to become women who take balls to the face everyday

If you cross your eyes too long they will stay that way!

Of course, if you are a good catholic you will also go blind and grow hair in places that are best served for finger pointing!

Are there such persons as ‘evil eye’ givers?

Again, sisters, generally older, can make time stand still and winds change direction with the tilt of their Linda Blair head.  This situation can be rectified if they are force fed the following:

You can’t come in here, this is my mastabatorium!

A twenty piece McDonald’s McNugget meal with a  cup of 354 degree cup of coffee and a scoop of red Pop-rocks while being held captive by Milli Vanilli, Elvis Presley’s ghost and Mama Cass!

Well, now burning coffee is a movie!
Ever Hear About The Lady Who Spilled Coffee On Herself At McDonald’s, Then Sued For Millions?