I was for Bernie. But if you're looking for something to convince people to vote for her, this is the article of the year. This fine gentleman was Solicitor General before SCOTUS and is a professor at Harvard. My family has been proud to call him a friend for many years.
P.S. Non-Hill people: Read this, too. It is also the ultimate defenestration of Trump and the GOP.
The Clinton Imperative
Talking to my mom about Trump today, and she's convinced he won't make it to November. "Health problems, they'll say," she said. "Addiction," I replied because I think he's a speed freak. "He's addicted to himself," she said.
... which led to a probably deplorable riff on Alcoholics Anonymous:
Donald Trump Anonymous. "Hi, my name is Donald and I'm addicted to me."
The DTA 12 Steps:
We admitted we were powerless over being an asshole.
Came to believe that no greater Power exists, because we are that greater power.
Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of Ourselves as we understood Us.
Refused to make a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of how it's gonna be great, believe me.
Were entirely ready to have all these defects of character stay right where they are.
Humbly asked Him to go fuck Himself.
Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and found them so we could fuck their shit up all over again.
Made direct contact with such people wherever possible, especially when to do so would injure them or others.
Fail to continue to take personal inventory and when we were wrong never admit it.
Refuse to seek through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him. That shit's for douchebag Protestants and silly Catholics.
Having had no spiritual awakening whatsoever as the result of these steps, we swear to carry this message to Donald Trump Addicts and to practice these principles in all our affairs.
(No offense to any brothers and sisters in AA intended)
My little daughter likes to make toasts. Today, as Bernie was giving his speech for Hillary, she said, "Daddy, let's toast!"
"Toast to what?" I asked.
"Bernie!" she replied as she held up her cup.
Damn straight, little sister.
Here's to you, Senator. None better, damn few as good.
-- George Edward Woodberry
Dear Murdering Fuck:
I've spent so many long years shitting down your throat that anything I say today will be redundant to hall-of-mirrors proportions. What is there left to say? You're a liar, a thief, and a serial killer on a scale not seen on this good Earth in ages. Your very existence is an insult, and the fact that you've gotten to enjoy 70 years on the same planet as those you consigned to brutal death makes me pray to an afterlife I don't believe in that you will reap your true reward in a place where pain and punishment are measured in eons.
But no. You'll die someday in a comfortable bed with the best health care available, sure and certain that Jesus is waiting to welcome you. Me? I wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire in front of me. You are a polyp in the colon of folly, you are brute greed personified, and if justice truly existed you would be in jail on this most auspicious of days.
Happy birthday, you blood-sodden killer of children. I hope you rot, and I hope it hurts. Blow out your candles and know that someday the bell will toll for thee, too. When that day comes, I will traverse fire, flood and mayhem for the opportunity to shit on your grave.
Very Sincerely Yours,
More mass shootings this year so far than days passed on the calendar.
Will we get the war weapons off the streets? Will the leaders lead?
No, we won't. No, they won't.
We will stack the bodies like cordwood using children as the mortar to build our real wall, the one between our humanity and ourselves. The TV will be sad for a few days and then Justin Bieber will drive too fast somewhere, and we'll roll those bones under the rug with all the others.
When 20 dead children at Sandy Hook changed nothing and almost 90,000 have died by gun violence since, we crossed a moral Rubicon. There is no coming back. This is what we are.
We are the Monster State. We stack the bodies and stroke the bullets until they are greasy with sweat. We are heroes, proud in the thunder of our guns, because this is freedom.
This is freedom.
This is freedom.
Not with a whimper, but a bang.
This is freedom.
I dreamed of my father last night. He died in February, but in the dream he was coming to visit. It was one of those frustration dreams where you can't get anything done, and also one of those dreams that keeps coming back after it wakes you up and you go back to sleep. I finally gave up and went out to watch some TV. That's when I learned Muhammad Ali was gone.
My father and I met Ali in the lobby of the Parker House Hotel in Boston. I was seven years old, and my Dad was a rabid Ali fan. Ali was, of course, standing in a crowd, so my father hoisted me onto his shoulders and bulled through the mob ... and there I was, face to face with The Greatest. He glowered at me, went "Boo!" and then smiled that megawatt smile. I said "Hi Champ!" and shook his massive hand.
My father and I made many memories together, but I think he'd agree that meeting Muhammad Ali was our mutual all-time favorite. Now, I'm no moonbeamer, but as I sat and watched the coverage in the darkness of the early morning, I remembered the dream I'd had and realized something: My father did visit me last night to bring me the news. I could even hear his voice: "Son ... wake up, son ... The Champ went down."
Losing Muhammad Ali was a little like losing my father all over again, but I have that Parker House memory along with a new one: An unexpected visit in the night. I can live with that.
Rest easy, Champ.
I wrote this on Facebook that dark day.
It's funny. Due to the nature of my work - writer and editor for an online alternative newspaper since 2002 - I live online. Some of the relationships I've built are going on 20 years old, because I was in the game before the Clinton impeachment...and that can be hard, because your friends are just a screen name, and so many others will say shit to a keyboard they'd never DARE say to your face, and it can be aggravating.
...and then a guy like JeffR - who I have known and admired for years - dies out of nowhere, and I find myself with tears in my eyes for a man I never once met. I only knew him as a screen name, but the news of his loss hit me like a blow. That was the measure of the man; he made that large an impact on someone he never laid eyes on, because of the excellent force of his presence.
Technology is strange and terrible and beautiful...and I'll tell you something, and take close note: The keyboard is the content of your character in this weird space. People like JeffR are sadly rarer than hen's teeth. You know, or not. It depends on where you look, and how you act yourself. In the immortal words of Jim Morrison, "This is the strangest life I've ever known."
Fair winds and following seas, Jeff. I never met you, but by God, you will be missed.
William Rivers Pitt | Michael Ratner Is Gone; You're Still Here
Profile InformationName: William Rivers Pitt
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