Obama Meets Good Duke Humphrey

A little piece of humor

Courtesy of François Rabelais:

“State Of The Union”

Obama: “Mr. Speaker, Mr. Vice President, members of the Congress, my fellow Americans: … Today a farmer prepared for the spring after the strongest five-year stretch of farm exports in our history! (applause) Today as a result of your efforts it is the lowest unemployment rate in over five years! (Applause) Today the manufacturing sector is adding jobs for the first time since 1990! (Applause)

Duke Humphrey: Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious by this son of Zeus! Is’t possible that all the lords of the realm are so in awe of this fool’s power that they so beshit themselves in his presence. I did’st perceive Lord Boehner cackling with the rest of his chickens, “We keep this fool, for we are too pigeon livered and lack the gall to make oppression bitter. Indeed, we serve the same master, who would be angry if we refused to play the game and part we are assigned.”

Now to the scene of the fool Obama confronted By Good Lord Humphrey!

Obama: Was I not Great!?

Humphrey: It seems a miracle truly; Lord Obama! Indeed, for one who was blind most of the time, to see such a vision. How is it that you have seen a farmer readying for spring when it is the worst drought in recorded history?

Obama: It was Hope that made me see this, my Good Lord Humphrey!

Humphrey: It is so well known throughout the realm that 20 million of our good people are without work, and yet you report that it is the lowest unemployment in five years. Didst thou disappear them?

Obama: It was “Hope” that employed them, my good lord!

Humphrey: Didst thou not knowest that over 2,000,000 manufacturing jobs had been lost since you came to office?

Obama: That, dear Lord Humphrey, is seen with both “Hope and Change!”

Humphrey: What does thou meanest by this Hope and Change?

Obama: It is my Hope and their change that has produced this miracle!

Now further, my Lord Humphrey, I will produce a final miracle. It is called Obamacare! You see this Jay Carney Simpcox before us. My Obamacare hath created a miracle. He was blind at birth and lame, and my Obamacare has, while it hath not cured his lameness, just this minute by giving my miraculous speech, he was cured of blindness! As I inveighed to you, “Am I not great, my Lord Humphrey?”

Humphrey: Indeed, if this be so, then let us behold this miracle. (Jay Carney is lying on the floor lame as could be but now he sees. Now to our scene).

Duke Humphrey: How long hast thou been been blind?

Carney Simpcox: Born so, master.

Humphrey: Let me see thine eyes; wink now; now open them: In my opinion yet thou seeest not well.

Carney Simpcox: Yes, master, clear as day. I thank Obama and his master.

Humphrey: Sayest thou me so? What colour is this cloak of?

Carney: Red, master; red as blood.

Humphrey: Say’st thou me so? What colour is my gown of?

Carney: Black forsooth; coal-black as jet.

Humphrey: Tell me, sirrah, what is my name?

Carney: Alas master I know not.

Humphrey: Nor his?

Carney: No, indeed, master.

Humphrey: What’s thine own name?

Carney: Carney Simpcox, an if it please you sir.

Humphrey: Then Carney sit there, thou lyingest knave in Christendom. If thou hadst been born blind, thou mightest as well have known our names as thus to distinguish of colours we do wear. Sight, might distinguish of colours, but suddenly to nominate them all, it is impossible. My Lords, Sir Obama Lord Zeus here hath done a miracle and would ye thee not think Lord Obama and Zeus’s cunning to be great, that could restore this cripple to his legs again?

Carney: O master, that you could!

Humphrey: Now fetch me a stool hither bye and bye. Now, sirrah, If you mean to save you a whipping, leap me over this stool and run away.

Carney: Alas, master, I am not able to stand alone; you go about to torture me in vain.

Beadle: I’ll beat him!, off with your shirt. (Bops Carney on the head and at once Carney leaps over the stool and runs away; and they follow and cry another Obama care miracle!!)

Wherein Wm. Shakespeare’s Ancient Pistol Meets His Match

It was not long after his impeachment by the House of Representatives and conviction by the Senate, that the knave then known as Barack O’Bomb was brought before the reformed Alexandria Rocket Docket to face further charges for his crimes against humanity committed while occupying the White House. As history will recall, it was the sage Mr. L. who had advised: “And when we bounce you, that doesn’t mean we just impeach you. That means you are held after being impeached, for the crimes you have committed… In a case like O’Bomb, because of the international ties he has, we’d like to have him just go, but maybe that wouldn’t work. Maybe we just have to try him.”

And so it was. And as befits such a case, O’Bomb was then indicted, tried and convicted on all counts most expeditiously.

Our tale today begins during the sentencing stage of that trial, when O’Bomb’s lawyer, the also moustachioed Pot Holder, Esq. and Etc., rose to plead his client’s case before the court, in the hope of reducing the expected sentence of 17 consecutive life sentences, down to no more than 6 such.

“Your honor, my client confesses that perhaps his most heinous crime was to falsify his birth certificate, to remove all record of both his actual place of birth (Hades-on-Thames), and his true name at birth, Bark O’Pistol.” [Ed. note: Other apocryphal accounts have it that he swapped names with John Brennan, after an especially heavy swapping session.]

“My client Bark,” Holder held forth, “confesses that it was perhaps presumptuous on his part to cleverly aggrandize his ancient name from Pistol to Bomb, seeking thereby to intimidate those who dared cross him, by pretending to be more than a mere Pistol—which admittedly backfired. But he pleads for your leniency, Your Honor, since megalomonia is an affliction which often strikes extraordinarily, wondrously, superlatively gifted geniuses such as he.”

“And, please Your Honor, we would like to also call forth two character witnesses on behalf of Mr. O’Bomb—excuse me, Mr. O’Pistol—who can attest to all of the aforementioned marvelous qualities of his, and then some. Please the Court, summon to the stand O’Pistol’s always overdressed wife, Mistress Michelle.”

After a nod from the presiding judge, the Sargeant-at-arms pronounced loudly: “Mistress, come Quickly!”

Whereupon Pot Holder proceeded: “Mistress, prithee recount O’Pistol’s gentle ways on departing for wars abroad.”

“Indeed shall I,” said she. “I hear his gentle words even now:

Come, let’s away. My love, give me thy lips. Look to my chattels and my movables: Let senses rule; the word is ‘Pitch and Pay:’ Trust none; For oaths are straws, men’s faiths are wafer-cakes, And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck: Therefore, Caveto be thy counsellor. Go, clear thy crystals. Yoke-fellows in arms, Let us to Ukraine; like horse-leeches, my boys, To suck, to suck, the very blood to suck!”

Pot proceeded: “And once in battle, did he not show valor, and unswerving commitment to his principles?”

“Indeed, so,” she recounted. “When once he took a Frenchman prisoner, this exchange had he:

French Soldier O, prenez misericorde! ayez pitie de moi!

PISTOL Moy shall not serve; I will have forty moys; Or I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat In drops of crimson blood.

French Soldier Est-il impossible d’echapper la force de ton bras?

PISTOL Brass, cur! Thou damned and luxurious mountain goat, Offer’st me brass?… Come hither, boy: ask me this slave in French What is his name… Bid him prepare; for I will cut his throat…

French Soldier O, je vous supplie, pour l’amour de Dieu, me pardonner! Je suis gentilhomme de bonne maison: gardez ma vie, et je vous donnerai deux cents ecus.

PISTOL What are his words?

Boy He prays you to save his life: he is a gentleman of a good house; and for his ransom he will give you two hundred crowns.

PISTOL Tell him my fury shall abate, and I the crowns will take… As I suck blood, I will some mercy show. Follow me!”

A bit disconcerted at what he had inadvertently placed on the court record, Pot Holder, Esq. and Etc. inhaled again, and made a second stab at it. “May it please the Court to now hear from Madame Doll Tearsheet, one of the realm’s most esteemed strategists, better known under her nom de guerre, Susan Rice. Madame Doll, wouldst you share with the Court some choice adjectives from your intimate knowledge of the gentleman seated before you, Bark O’Pistol?” To which the silver-tongued Oxford graduate replied, in the Queen’s best English:

“I scorn you, scurvy companion. What! you poor, base, rascally, cheating, lack-linen mate! Away, you mouldy rogue, away! I am meat for your master…

Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! by this wine, I’ll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!”

Which was more than the dethroned O’Pistol could handle, becoming at once unhinged and unholstered, and shouting back at her: “Et tu, Susan? After everything I did for you, and to you? After those long, intimate nights together discussing regime- change? Now you too R2P on me? I thought that was all over after what Panurge did.”

After ordering O’Pistol muzzled to restore a modicum of dignity to the Court, the presiding judge then handed down his sentence. “Being duly moved to maximumu leniency by your pleadings, I will allow you to serve your 17 consecutive life sentences concurrently with the 6 consecutive life sentences which you also so richly deserve. But just take these two bitches out of here with you. And Pot, too.”

Mistress Quickly Jarrett and Doll Tear-Sheet Rice Take Charge of the White House Situation Room

While Obama occupied himself in the gym between the West and East Wings of the White House with Pistol John Brennan and the world careened towards thermonuclear war, the situation room was being run as it was during Benghazi, not by the president, but by Mistress Quickly Jarrett and Doll Tear-Sheet Rice.

During the impeachment hearings of Obama, who proved to have been missing in action as usual, transcripts of the meetings in the situation room were released under subpoena. Hostess Quickly Jarrett seemed to be the one who controlled the proceedings:

Host Jarrett: Alas the day! Take heed of him: he stabbed me in mine own house, and that most beastly: in good faith, he cares not what mischief he doth, if his weapon be out; he will foin like any devil; he will spare neither man, woman, nor child.

It had not been expected that Host Jarrett would be so forthright in her appraisal of Obama as a danger to man, woman, and child, although all suspected it was the case. Could this be the smoking pistol?

Host Jarrett: I am undone by his going; I warrant you he’s an infinitive thing upon my score. A hundred mark is a long one for a poor lone woman to bear: and I have borne, and borne, and borne; and have been fubbed off, and fubbed off, and fubbed off, and fubbed off, from this day to that day, that it is a shame to be thought on. There is no honesty in such dealing; unless a woman should be made an ass, and a beast, to bear every knave’s wrong.

In between dribbles in the gym, Obama made a brief appearance in the situation room. Mistress Quickly Jarrett demanded that Fang arrest him. To which Obama responded:

Obama: Throw the quean in the Potomac.

Host Jarrett: Throw me in the Potomac? I’ll throw thee in the Potomac. Wilt thou? Wilt thou? Thou bastardly rogue! Murder, murder! O thou honey-suckle villain!

Obama, having a high opinion of himself, responded:

Obama: What is the gross sum that I owe thee?

Host Jarrett: Marry if thou wert an honest man, thyself, and the money too. Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin camber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, upon Wednesday in Whitsam-week, when the prince broke thy head for liking his father to a singing man of Windsor; thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my lady thy wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not goodwife Keech, the butcher’s wife, come in then and call me gossip Quickly? And didst thou not, when she was gone down stairs, desire me to be no more so familiarity with such poor people; saying, that ere long they should call me madam and didst thou not kiss me and bid me fetch thee thirty shillings? I put thee now to thy book-oath; deny it, if thou canst.

Afraid that they might be overheard by Michelle, Obama returned to the gym where he engaged in various exercises with Pistol John Brennan, making a variety of moves which he learned from his younger years in Hawaii with older men.

As the world situation became even hotter, with Russian President Putin trying to reach Obama on the hot line, Mistress Quickly Jarrett and Doll Tear-Sheet Rice entered the situation room. Little had the Congressmen guessed that it was they and only they who took charge of the situation room in Obama’s absence.

Host Jarrett: I’ faith, sweet heart, methinks now you are in an excellent good temporality; your pulsidge beats as extraordinarily as heart would desire; and your color, I warrant you, is as red as any rose in good truth, la! But i’ faith, you have drunk too much canaries; and that’s a marvelous searching wine, and it perfumes the blood ere one can say, —what’s this? How do you now?

Doll Rice: Better than I was. Hem!

Host Jarrett: Why, that’s well said; a good hearts worth gold. Look, here comes Obama.

Enter Obama singing after his regular Tuesday assassination meeting with the older Pistol Brennan.

Obama: How now, Mistress Doll Rice?

Doll Rice: You muddy rascal.

Obama: You make fat rascals, mistress Doll.

Doll Rice: I make them! Gluttony and diseases make them; I make them not. Hang yourself, you muddy conger, hang yourself!

Host Jarrett: Why, this is the old fashion; you two never meet, but you fall to some discord: you are both, in good troth, as rheumatic as two dry toasts; you cannot one bear with another’s conformities. To Doll Rice. You are the weaker vessel, as they say, the emptier vessel.

Doll Rice: Can a weak empty vessel bear such a huge full hogshead? There’s a whole merchant’s venture of Bordeaux stuff in him; you have not seen a hulk better stiffed in the hold. Enter Drawer McDonough:

Drawer McDonough: Sir ancient Pistol Brennan’s below, and would speak with you.

Doll Rice: Hang him, swaggering rascal! Let him not come hither: it is the foul-mouthdst rogue in the USA

Host Jarrett: If he swagger, let him not come here: no, by my faith; I must live amongst my neighbors; I’ll no swaggerers: I am in good name and fame with the very best shut the door; there comes no swaggerers here! I have not lived all this while, to have swaggering now: shut the door, I pray you.

Obama: Dost thou hear, hostess?

Host Jarrett: Tilly-Fally, Barry, never tell me; your ancient swaggerer comes not in my doors. No I’ll no swaggers.

Obama: He’s no swaggerer, hostess; a tame cheater, he; you may stroke him as gently as a puppy greyhound: he will not swagger with a Barbary hen, if her feathers turn back in any show of resistance. Call him up Drawer McDonough.

Host Jarrett: Cheater, call you him? I will bar no honest man my house, nor no cheater: but I do when one says swagger: feel, masters, how I shake: look you, I warrant you

Doll Rice: So you do hostess.

Host Jarrett: Do I? Yea, in very truth, do I an twere an aspen leaf: I cannot abide swaggerers.

Pistol John Brennan: God save you sir Barry!

Obama: Welcome, ancient Pistol. Here, Pistol, I charge you with a cup of sack: do you discharge upon mine hostess.

Pistol Brennan: I will discharge upon her, sir Barry, with two drones.

Obama: She is pistol-proof, sir; you shall hardly offend her.

Host Jarrett: Come, I’ll drink no proofs, nor no bullets; I’ll drink no more than will do me good, for no mans pleasure, I.

Pistol Brennan: Then to you, mistress Susan, I will charge you.

Doll Rice: Charge me? I scorn you, scurvy companion. What! You poor, base rascally, cheating, lack-linen mate! Away, you mouldy rogue, away! I am meat for your master.

Pistol Brennan: I know you, Mistress Susan.

Doll Rice: Away, you cut-purse rascal! You filthy bung, away! By this wine, I’ll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! You basket-hilt stale juggler, you! Since when, I pray you sir? What! With two points on your shoulder much!

Pistol Brennan: I will murder your ruff for this.

Obama: No more Pistol; I would not have you go off here; discharge yourself of our company, Pistol.

Host Jarrett: No, good captain Pistol; not here, sweet captain.

Doll Rice: Captain! Thou abominable damned cheater, art thou not ashamed to be called captain? An captains were of my mind, they would truncheon you out, for taking their names upon you before you have earned them. You a captain, you slave! For what? For tearing a poor whore’s ruff in a bawdy-house? He a captain? Hang him, rogue! He lives upon mouldy stewed prunes, and dried cakes. A captain! Gods light! These villains will make the word captain as odious as the word occupy, which was an excellent good word before it was ill sorted: therefore captains had need look to it.

As the transcripts were read aloud in the Senate chambers, even the Democrats, who held the majority, were taken aback. Putin, who had waited for hours to speak with the President, never received a return call. Not only was the President missing in action enamored of a cheater and a murderer, but his senior advisors Mistress Quickly Jarrett and Doll Tear-Sheet Rice were clearly incapable of the kind of strategic thinking required in the situation room, overwhelmed by their own professional obsessions.

Although the Senators would normally have accepted such behavior due to their own propensities to readily engage in the world’s oldest profession, the release of the transcripts made it impossible to maintain the cover up of the inner workings of the Obama White House, which had been turned into a tavern.

The Democratic-controlled Senate was forced to vote to impeach the President. Host Jarrett and Doll Rice were given generous severance packages which included job retraining and Pistol John Brennan was duly discharged.

President Joe Biden finally returned Putin’s call on the hotline. Thermonuclear war was avoided. Humanity was given the possibility of a future.

A Tale of the U.S. Congress and Barack Obama, with a Nod to Francois Rabelais’ Sheep of Panurge

Literary critics are fond of taking aim at Panurge, the dear friend of Rabelais’s Pantagruel, as a crafty knave and libertine. Yet, there is much to be learned from this knave, as the following story from February of 2014 reveals.

It was at that time, in Washington, D.C., when Panurge encountered a leader of sheep, one Dingdong, whom he immediately understood to be a conniving liar up to no good, constantly bragging of the value of his sheep, his wife, and his own “dingdong,” otherwise described by Rabelais as “a fine eleven-inch-long branch of red coral for [his wife’s] christmas-box.” Dingdong was herding his sheep through the Halls of the U.S. Congress, no less, while he dictated the laws of the land with no interference whatsoever.

Understand: “Dingdong” was a nickname for the creature inhabiting the White House, otherwise known as Barack Obama, so-named due to his long, lanky appearance, and resemblance to the male member. It had been given him by none other than the Queen-Empress, who, lacking such a dingdong herself, had greatly desired to have one at her command. The “sheep,” while maintaining a physical resemblance to members of the human species, and often addressed as “members” of Congress, otherwise demonstrated all the characteristics of the ovine specimens—bleating, sniffing, defecating in public, and otherwise stuffing their faces.

Taking an immediate disliking to the man, Panurge proceeded to bargain with him over purchase of one of the sheep, offering a princely sum. Dingdong responded by launching into an explosion of rhetoric on the value of his sheep:

“Now I think on’t, over all the fields, where they piss, corn grows as fast as if the Lord had pissed there; they need neither be tilled nor dunged. Besides, man, your chymists extract the best saltpetre in the world out of their urine. Nay, with their very dung (with reverence be it spoken) the doctors in our country make pills that cure seventy-eight kinds of diseases….”

Dingdong went on: “Do but mind the wonders of nature that are found in those animals, even in a member which one would think were of no use. Take me but these horns, and bray them a little with an iron pestle, or with an andiron, which you please, it is all one to me; then bury them wherever you will, provided it be where the sun may shine, and water them frequently; in a few months I’ll engage you will have the best asparagus in the world…”

I’ll spare you the rest of the speech, in which Dingdong (Obama) praised the “inward members, the shoulders, the legs, the knuckles, the neck, the breast, the liver, the spleen, the tripes, the kidneys, the bladder, wherewith they make foot-balls….” of the captive sheep. He then demanded the exorbitant sum of 3 livres.

Panurge paid up—and it is then that the story takes the decisive turn. For no sooner did Panurge purchase a fine specimen of a sheep, than “without any further tittle-tattle,” he threw it out the window. When the hurtled sheep began to bleat and make a sad noise, however, all of a sudden something very strange happened. “All the other sheep … crying and bleating in the same tone, made all the haste they could to leap nimbly” out the window. “It was impossible to hinder them: for you know that it is the nature of sheep always to follow the first, wherever it goes; which makes Aristotle, lib. 9. de hist. animal. mark them for the most silly and foolish animals in the world.”

“Dingdong, at his wits end, and stark staring mad, as a man who saw his sheep destroy… themselves before his face, strove to hinder and keep them back by might and main; but all in vain: they all one after the other frisked and jumped. … At last he laid hold on a huge sturdy one by the fleece,… hoping to keep it back, and so to save that and the rest: but the ram was so strong that it proved too hard for him, and carried its master” with it, to his timely end.

Thus were the sacred halls of Congress cleared by the crafty Panurge of both the sheep and their venal master—opening the way for the thorough cleansing of the premises, and their replacement with worthy representatives of the human species, dedicated to the principles of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.

May humankind be purged of its sheeplike nature forever!

The Tale of Two Rivers of Paris and How Obama is Pissing It All Away!

Master Rabelais has preserved two worthy historical accounts of two great floodings of Paris during the lives of the heroic giants whose deeds he preserved. The first was at the time of Gargantua’s first arrival in the city, where he stood one day leaning upon Notre Dame cathedral, “At which place, seeing so many about him, he said with a loud voice, I believe that these buzzards will have me to pay them here my welcome hither, and my Proficiat. It is but good reason. I will now give them their wine, but it shall be only in sport. Then smiling, he untied his fair braguette, and drawing out his mentul into the open air, he so bitterly all-to-bepissed them, that he drowned two hundred and sixty thousand, four hundred and eighteen, besides the women and little children. Some, nevertheless, of the company escaped this piss-flood by mere speed of foot, who, when they were at the higher end of the university, sweating, coughing, spitting, and out of breath, they began to swear and curse, some in good hot earnest, and others in jest. Carimari, carimara: golynoly, golynolo. By my sweet Sanctess, we are washed in sport, a sport truly to laugh at; in French, Par ris, for which that city hath been ever since called Paris; whose name formerly was Leucotia, as Strabo testifieth, lib. quarto, from the Greek word leukotes, whiteness, because of the white thighs of the ladies of that place.”

The second flooding of Paris, which gave rise to a still-existing small river (the Bievre), arose from a similar cause. When a noble lady of Paris rebuffed the advances of Pantagruel’s friend Panurge, he compounded a drug from certain parts of a bitch and scattered it on her clothing and bade her farewell. “Panurge had no sooner spoke this but all the dogs that were in the church came running to this lady with the smell of the drugs that he had strewed upon her, both small and great, big and little, all came, laying out their member, smelling to her, and pissing everywhere upon her—it was the greatest villainy in the world. Panurge made the fashion of driving them away; then took his leave of her and withdrew himself into some chapel or oratory of the said church to see the sport; for these villainous dogs did compiss all her habiliments, and left none of her attire unbesprinkled with their staling; insomuch that a tall greyhound pissed upon her head, others in her sleeves, others on her crupper-piece, and the little ones pissed upon her pataines; so that all the women that were round about her had much ado to save her….

“But the best was at the procession, in which were seen above six hundred thousand and fourteen dogs about her, which did very much trouble and molest her, and whithersoever she passed, those dogs that came afresh, tracing her footsteps, followed her at the heels, and pissed in the way where her gown had touched. All the world stood gazing at this spectacle, considering the countenance of those dogs, who, leaping up, got about her neck and spoiled all her gorgeous accoutrements, for the which she could find no remedy but to retire unto her house, which was a palace. Thither she went, and the dogs after her; she ran to hide herself, but the chambermaids could not abstain from laughing. When she was entered into the house and had shut the door upon herself, all the dogs came running of half a league round, and did so well bepiss the gate of her house that there they made a stream with their urine wherein a duck might have very well swimmed, and it is the same current that now runs at St. Victor, in which Gobelin dyeth scarlet, for the specifical virtue of these piss-dogs, as our master Doribus did heretofore preach publicly. So may God help you, a mill would have ground corn with it. Yet not so much as those of Basacle at Toulouse.”

How badly we need such beneficent giants today, and such rivers. Our great food-growing areas west of the Mississippi are dead, dry and arid, and becoming worse.

But whereas Pantagruel, Panurge and the giants of olden times bestirred themselves to work such miracles as these to create rivers for the needs of men even still today, Obama does just the opposite. Only today, the Federal Bureau of Reclamation announced that its allocation of water for farmers in California’s Central Valley, formerly one of the world’s most productive agricultural regions, would be zero for all but a few farmers. The California State Water Project had already made its own announcement of the same thing. Texas is in almost as bad a shape; most of the nation west of the Mississippi is drying up.

What has Obama done? Has he revived the North American Water and Power Alliance, which was planned under the Kennedy Administration to deal with this problem? No. Has he expanded nuclear desalination, also exhaustively planned under Kennedy? No.

Instead, he has pissed away what little water and food we still have left, in insane “green” schemes dreamed up by his mistress, Queen Elizabeth II. Forty to 45% of our corn supply is wasted by being made into an inefficient ethanol additive to gasoline. The US corn turned into ethanol in 2011 could have instead fed 400 million people. The corn made into one 25-gallon gas tank of pure ethanol alone, could feed one person for a year in a hungry USA. And the 14 billion gallons of ethanol produced here in 2011 wasted over 50 billion gallons of water to process it,— not including the water used to grow the corn.

Production of expensive gas and petroleum by hydraulic fracturing (fracking), another crazy idea of Obama’s Empress, Queen Elizabeth, is consuming huge volumes of water,— an estimated 45 billion gallons a year, which is being pumped directly into the shale deposits, where 95% of the water is simply polluted and lost. Nearly half (47%) of the oil and gas wells opened by fracking in the US and Canada are in areas of high water stress. In California, New Mexico and Wyoming, the majority of wells have been drilled in areas of extreme water scarcity. In Texas, over 9,000 wells are in extremely water-short areas, and another 9,000 are in dry-prone locations.

For those of us who like to eat (or even those who only prefer to eat), only two choices remain for us now: If we don’t simply out-and-out die from embarrassment at having such a dried-up piece of shit for a so-called President, then the only alternative is to remove him through impeachment before the first of March.

“B-Ball:” A Poem · Audio available here

by Bill Ferguson

Listen, my children, and hear this, the tale
Of how a President ends up in jail.

As World War Three drew near and nearer on,
In quiet, sleepless fear lay Washington.
But at the White House, they were getting’ down,
Obama, and his fawning guests, renowned
For monetary wealth, or athletic deed,
Or his fav’rite tunes, his ego here to feed.
Hollywood starlets, and rockers demented,
The famous and shameless were here represented.
The bailout-fat bankers with rented sluts,
Politicos smiling, while hating his guts,
The dutiful officers wanted elsewhere;
You know that Beyoncé and Oprah were there!
Who tolls the tax dollars spent on this spread?
In honor of Barack, our State of Head.

As the dancing got dirty, the guests more drunk,
Obama said “Val, this is a slam dunk!”
But some time, between twelve thirty and one,
The First lady noticed her husband was gone.
“Where did he go,” she thought, “what kind of whim?”
None of her staffers could even find him.
He wouldn’t be watching his favorite show,
It’s always on Netflix or HBO.
Was he drinking Cristal, where Jay Z wouldn’t see?
Shooting hoops with Lebron? “Oh, where could he be!”
Is he sneaking a drag off of God knows what?
Was he tempted by a forbidden butt?
“Oh, Hell no!” she thought, “he knows it ain’t healthy
If he’s off with that Danish bitch takin’ a selfie!”

She glared, when he, grinning and flushed, reappeared,
But she shrugged, and said “Oh.” when he said in her ear:
“I had to go to the Situation Room,
Y’know, to deal a little death and doom.”
And all saw how happy, no, giddy, no, high
Obama glowed with a slightly manic eye.
It wasn’t the best time, but just then did decide
A freshman congressman , to take Barack aside.
The rep was quite nervous, did hem and did haw,
“Could you, please, check with the Hill, Sir, before changing the law?”
And, then, as the band had just stopped for a break,
Obama the congressman to task did take:

I am Commander-in-Chief, son,who are you?
I just droned somebody, d’you want some, too?
I do what I want, what I think fittin’,
Although, on occasion, I do consult Britain.
I’ll order surveillance, on earth and in sky,
‘Cause I am the President. Who decides? I!
I’ll give the banks bailouts, enforce the bail-ins,
Raise minimum wages by five or ten cents.

I’ll appoint whom I want, while you’re out for a snack,
If I think I want to, I’ll launch an attack.
They call it Obamacare, don’t know if you saw.
You may try to legislate, I am the law!
An old piece of parchment can’t tell me what to do,
So, to paraphrase Victoria, F*** YOU, TOO!”

Perhaps it was because he’d been so proud
In his euphoria, and loud;
Perhaps because the band had taken five,
Perhaps a hidden microphone was live.
It seemed that the room had gotten smaller,
Ev’ryone heard this Constitutional scholar.
And then, a spectral hand appeared, to scrawl
A flaming script upon the ballroom wall.
“Thou shalt be made to answer for the dead !
Many, Many! Take a hike, you farthead!”

The crowd beheld Obama, first, in terror’s grip,
But then, saw Chaplin’s moustache on his lip.
(A revelation? They know it was always there.
Before however, they didn’t want to care)
They, nervous, laughing, left him, unbefriended,
And thus did exit, and the party ended.

Perhaps unnecessary to relate,
The details of Barack Obama’s fate:
No longer a herd of fearful mutton,
Taking his finger off Armageddon’s button,
Before more Constitutional breaches,
At last the tardy Congress him Impeaches.
And after cellmates tire of his venting,
Perhaps, remembering and repenting,
Perhaps, while he his memoirs is a-scribbling,
Or on the prison blacktop is a-dribbling,
He’ll think unto himself, that it was dumb,
To challenge God to a game of one-on-one.

Courtesy of François Rabelais:

How The Lord Of Suckfist Was Most Wonderfully Revived At The Impeachment Trial Of Barack Obama

It was early March 2014, and Washington, D.C. was all atwitter, as the impeachment trial of Barack Obama was about to begin. Five counts of impeachment, charging the President with violating the Constitution and public trust by 1) waging war without Congressional approval; 2) killing American citizens without due process; 3) implementing a policy of Nazi genocide against the American people through denying them medical care; 4) aiding and abetting enemies of the United States in war against them, including the al-Qaeda terrorists; and 5) promoting the cause of Nazism, through material and other support of Nazi groups out to overthrow legitimate governments of friendly nations, had been voted out of the House Judiciary Committee, and passed by the House.

The Senate was now considering the issue.

Obama had to do something.

Obama was getting perturbed. He had always relied not only on his British sponsors, but on his gift of rhetorical skill, which, in his own brain, had succeeded in fooling all of the people, all of the time. After all, people loved to hear him speak — even if he did turn around and destroy their lives with policies of economic and military destruction.

But this time, it hadn’t worked — and he was on trial.

Suddenly, an idea came to him. Why not rely on a lawyer of great reknown from another age, one celebrated through the ages as a master of the mellifluous word and logic, one who served, in fact, as his own role model in confounding audiences? Who else, but Great Lord of Suckfist!

Take the opening lines of Suckfist’s plea before the great Pantagruel, back in the great trial chronicled by Rabelais. What an inspiration! To wit:

“My lord, and you my masters, if the iniquity of men were as easily seen in categorical judgment as we can discern flies in a milkpot, the world’s four oxen had not been so eaten up with rats, nor had so many ears upon the earth been nibbled away so scurvily. For although all that my adversary hath spoken be of a very soft and downy truth, in so much as concerns the letter and history of the factum, yet nevertheless the crafty slights, cunning subtleties, sly cozenages, and little troubling entanglements are hid under the rosepot, the common cloak and cover of all fraudulent deceits.”

How eloquent! How convincing! Obama was sure that Lord Suckfist’s argumentation could get him off the hook!

Obama proceeded with his normal self-confidence, quoting from the great Lord Suckfist. Confronted with the charge of going to war without Congressional approval, he boldly asserted:

“I had a consultation upon this point with my masters the clerks, who for resolution concluded in frisesomorum that there is nothing like to mowing in the summer, and sweeping clean away in water, well garnished with paper, ink, pens, and penknives, of Lyons upon the river of Rhone, dolpym, dolopof, tarabin, tarabas, tut, prut, pish; ….”

Interruptions from the Judges—”Make yourself clear! Answer the charge!”

Taken aback, Obama, after taking a consoling look in the mirror, cleared his throat and began again:

“My lords, believe not when the said good woman had with birdlime caught the shoveler fowl, the better before a sergeants’s witness to deliver the younger son’s portion to him, that the sheep’s pluck or hog’s haslet did dodge and shrink back in the usurers’ purses, or that there could be anything better to preserve one from the cannibals than to take a rope of onions….”

Shouting again from the judges. “Make yourself clear!” This was not working; yet, a desperate sweating Obama pressed on, quoting the quintessential Lord Suckfist again:

“Now, if the dice will not favour you with any other throw but ambes-ace and the chance of three at the great end, mark well the ace, then take me your dame, settle her in a corner of the bed, and whisk me her up drilletrille, there, there, toureloura la la; which when you have done, take a hearty draught of the best, despicando grenovillibus, in despite of the frogs, ….”

The judges, the senators, could take no more. They were faced with the need to either condemn the accused as insane (the 25th Amendment)—or take some other extraordinary measure, as the fate of the nation was at stake.

Again, the great Rabelais came to the rescue. The wisdom came from his Pantagruel, who, in his disquisition on law before the trial of Lord Suckfist vs. Lord Kissbreech, had made the most perfect sense: “Seeing the laws are excerpted out of the middle of moral and natural philosophy, how should these fools have understood it, that have, by G—, studied less in philosophy than my mule? In respect of human learning and the knowledge of antiquities and history they were as truly laden with those faculties as a toad is with feathers.”

Thus, Pantagruel concluded, the only real basis for law is the “real truth,” which he vowed to pursue in the course of the great trial before him, or “make [the plaintiffs] shorter by the head, and take it from off your shoulders to show others by your example that in justice and judgment men ought to speak nothing but the truth.”

With that standard before them, the Senate convicted Obama. The Congress proceeded to pass Glass-Steagall, creating the conditions to build its way back. Rabelais would have been most pleased.

The Case of the Crumpled Stiltskin

There once was a very foolish and ambitious miller who had occasion to visit the King. He told the King he had a beautiful daughter who could spin straw into gold. The King, who was notoriously greedy, ordered the miller to produce his daughter the next day. When the beautiful girl arrived, the King threw her into a room full of straw with a spinning wheel and ordered her to spin the straw into gold—or face instant death.

As soon as the King left the room, the girl began to cry. Suddenly, a strange tall man with big floppy ears appeared out of nowhere and asked her why she was crying. Before she could get out a word, the tall stranger declared that he was the most powerful man in the world. Nothing like me ever was! The man had a strange odor, but the young girl answered. When she explained, the man asked her what she had to give him in return for his spinning the straw into gold. She offered her necklace. The odd man accepted, ordered her to stand in the corner with her back to him, and sat down at the spinning wheel and produced a pile of gold. He finished the job and walked off with the necklace.

When the King saw the next morning that the straw had indeed been turned to gold, out of avarice, he took the girl to another larger room with much more straw, and delivered the same demand. Right after the King left, the same ugly man with the protruding ears appeared and asked again what the girl would offer in return for his spinning the straw into gold. The girl offered her ring and the bizarre man set about spinning once again, under the same orders to her to turn her back on the process.

The next day, the greedy King repeated his demand and put the girl in a cavernous room filled from floor to ceiling with straw. Again the weird ogre appeared, with the same offer. The girl pled with him that she had nothing left to offer. The ogre said that he would once again perform the miracle if the girl would promise that if she became Queen, she would give her first born child to him. Since the girl had no expectation of ever being Queen, she readily agreed and the disfigured character did his work once again.

But low and behold, the King did take her hand in marriage, and soon after becoming Queen, she gave birth to a lovely child, whom the Queen adored.

Suddenly one night, the ogre appeared to demand his payment. The Queen pled with him to take half the Kingdom’s fortune but spare the child. The monster of a man refused, but offered a bet: If you can guess my name in the next three days, the sadist offered, you can keep the child. If you fail, the child is mine.

When the evil man left, the Queen summoned her most trusted royal intelligence aides and sent them off to come up with a list of every conceivable name in the Kingdom. In the back of her mind, the Queen was worried: The evil ogre with the big floppy ears did not resemble any citizen of the Kingdom that she had ever seen. He was clearly from a foreign land. Nevertheless, she had her loyal spies compile the list.

For two days in a row, the evil genie with the obscene ears showed up to demand that the Queen guess his name. With each wrong answer, he became more manic, more demonic and more self-satisfied. On the second day, he showed up with a large round ball, which he dribbled incessantly, to further aggravate the desperate Queen.

That night, the Queen summoned her most trusted aide to confer on what to do. They had exhausted every conceivable name, and, as feared, none had matched the twisted, big-eared stranger. The aide had a proposal. There is a man, Mr. L, who is renowned for his powers of mind. Somewhere, in the brief encounters with the deformed-ear brute, some slip of information must have come out that could lead to the truth. If any man in the Kingdom can divine the answer from those shards of information, it is Mr. L, the aide promised. The Queen ordered him to summon the man to her quarters immediately. An hour later, the aide returned in the company of an aged man, but of clearly sound mind, who patiently asked the Queen to provide a precise description of her half-dozen encounters with the evil schemer. Upon completion of the gentle interrogation, Mr. L left the castle and set out on his mission.

He returned at dawn with a small sheet of paper, which he presented to the Queen. The paper contained a number of names—seemingly random combinations of first and last names. Mr. L explained: Your scoundrel is, indeed, from a foreign land, although he attempts to pass himself as a native. And by the way, your highness, he is not a magician but is in fact a crude charlatan. He has no magical skills to weave straw into gold. He in fact stole the gold from the King’s own treasury. While you had your back turned, he merely disposed of the straw in the sack holding the gold and made off with the straw. Your gullible King was so anxious and so overcome with greed that he bought the fool’s tale. I do suspect that, over the course of the three trials he genuinely fell in love with you, captivated by your beauty and innocence. He is a better man—and perhaps less of a fool for the experience.

And now for your large-eared swindler, you may rid yourself of him forever, by confronting him with his name—not one name, not two names but many names under which he has lived and conspired for his adult life.

The Queen was overwhelmed with gratitude for the kindly efforts of Mr. L. She dared to press him further: How did you learn all of this? Mr. L explained.

You mentioned a large round ball, you described his most graphic feature—his enormous ears, resembling an elephant more than a man. You noted a strange odor. I knew of only one such man, who was said to dwell in a corner of the forest surrounded by a small field of green plants, which he ritualistically burns at night, sticking his nose right up close to the fire and deeply inhaling. When he partakes of this ritual, he becomes rather mad, mumbling to himself, staring in a nearby pond to partake of his own distorted image, which he clearly admires beyond all human reason. When I came upon him just hours ago, he pranced about in self-praise, chanting his silly poem, gloating at the prize he was about take from you:

She knows not my name, she knows not my fame. I am the One, the Barry, the Hussein, the Barack, the Soetoro, the O-o-o-so-obama.

Mr. L had one final word for the Queen. He apologized in advance for using some unchoice words in the presence of royalty, but felt it essential to complete his narrative without a missing detail. The man, Mr. L explained, at one point was so enthralled with himself and his anticipated conquest that he stripped naked, revealing a most disgusting and shocking sight: He had a severely crumpled stiltskin (Mr. L was simply too embarrassed to use the proper term, foreskin), clearly the result of some horrible childhood disease or accident. At the moment of exposure, Mr. L had been so shocked that the only words that came to his mind were: What a weird schmuck!!!

The Queen dismissed Mr. L with the utmost gratitude, still blushing from the final revelation. She awaited the arrival of the evil One. She did not have to wait long. Soon after dawn, BO arrived. More smug than ever, now reeking from the foul odor of the weed, which simultaneously gave his skin the bizarre appearance of an albino coming out of a deep, dusty mine shaft, the ear meister demanded the answer: What is my name?

The Queen, now savoring every delicious moment, inquired: Is your name Hillary? Noooo, the distorted creature replied, noting with glee that the Queen’s child was asleep in the corner of the room wrapped in a pink blanket.

Is your name Barry, or perhaps Barack, or perhaps it is Hussein, Obama, Soetoro—or, perhaps, all of the above.

Upon hearing his names and realizing that he had been thoroughly unmasked, the swindler went into a wild tirade—a cross between an infantile screaming and crying fit and an epileptic seizure. He stomped on the ground and grabbed his huge ears, pulling them in every which way. He fell to the ground pounding the floor with such ferocious rage that he actually crashed through the wooden planks of the floor and broke into so many mangled pieces that he was unrecognizable—except for the large ears which continued to flap well after the evil One was never seen again.

And America lived happily ever after.

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