In one of the few Hollywood epics that wasn’t entirely wretched, there was a stirring moment in “Spartacus” when the Roman general stands before the slaves huddled on the ground and demands that Spartacus, the leader of the revolt, stand and identify himself. As Spartacus (Kirk Douglas) begins to get up in order that his fellow prisoners not be tortured on his behalf, the others rise, each of them insisting “I am Spartacus.”
I think that when Obama and his thugs demand that an order of nuns or anyone else who holds sincere religious beliefs caves to the power of the state, it behooves us to stand and declare, whatever our religion or gender, that we are all Sisters of the Poor.
Judas betrayed Christ for 30 pieces of silver. This administration would have Christians betray their convictions for a handful of birth control pills and publicly funded abortions.
The world has never lacked for those who identified with Pontius Pilate, but it is a rare occurrence in America. In the past, even our worst presidents were only lousy in the way that politicians usually are. That is to say, they tended to yield to greed and lust more than they should have, but until Obama came along, they didn’t remind most people of those tinhorn rulers of banana republics.
Obama lies more than any person I’ve ever known, in or out of the White House. He divides people along racial, religious and economic, lines for solely partisan reasons. And while he constantly whines about income inequality, carrying on as if Karl Marx was his personal speechwriter, he spends millions of our tax dollars on family vacations and is never happier than when he’s addressing his supporters at $35,000-a-seat fundraisers.
Speaking of Obama, it galls me that when an ex-president dies, no matter how shabby his administration may have been, the flags fly at half-mast as if we’re all supposed to mourn his demise. But when a great composer, medical researcher or inventor passes, he or she is lucky to muster a couple of paragraphs on the obituary page.
The reason that I and many others believe that the president should come from the ranks of governors and not be a member of Congress is because the job calls for executive experience. The three branches of government, after all, are the executive, the judicial and the legislative. Being the president means being the chief executive of the 315,000,000 member corporation known as the United States of America.
But I wager there isn’t another boardroom in the nation that has so many incompetent nincompoops seated around the table. Obama, Biden, Kerry, Hagel, Holder and Sebelius are people who have never worked a day anywhere but a law office, a college campus or Congress. Ivory towers don’t prepare anyone to do anything but go through life confusing theory with reality.
Here in California, the state Supreme Court recently granted an illegal alien the right to practice law. At first I was outraged. Are these people insane? Then it occurred to me that of course they’re insane, but if these nitwits are entitled to practice law, why the heck shouldn’t Sergio Garcia?
After all, we have justices sitting on the U.S. Supreme Court today who have announced that they wouldn’t advise emerging nations to adopt our Constitution as their own. For that matter, Barack Obama has gone on record saying that the major flaw in our Constitution is that it doesn’t deal with the redistribution of wealth. Is it any wonder then that in spite of swearing his allegiance to the sacred document, he ignores what it says with unseemly regularity – things like states’ rights and the separation of powers – any damn time he feels like it?
My only problem with the Constitution is that it prevents the foreign-born from aspiring to the presidency. When fewer and fewer Americans seem to appreciate the fact they were lucky enough to be born here, it’s far likelier that someone who came here from Cuba, China or one of the countries formerly under the Soviet boot would more closely resemble the Gipper than the Gypper.
Finally, after watching TV weather reporters spend the last 60 years bundled up in the middle of storms and tsunamis, I have to ask: Why? If I had the job, I’d sit by a window, though not too close, sipping on a cup of cocoa, watching cows and trees flying by, and say, “Boy, I’m sure glad I’m not out there. That’s some stinky weather.”
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